


we are racing the clouds home

by rottingflower



Series: six thousand twenty-three years and counting (or: the shared history of an angel and a demon) [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Historical, Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt, Language Barrier, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Tower of Babel, although I guess aus aren't actual aus because it fits in canon, aziraphale is still upset about the flood guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29315583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rottingflower/pseuds/rottingflower
Summary: The Tower of Babel, to Aziraphale, reveals humanity's resilience and what they can achieve when they work together. To the rest of Heaven, the Tower is only an example that pride goeth before destruction, and haughtiness before a fall.Every citizen in Babylon finds themselves speaking a different language, their ambition of walking among the clouds gone up in smoke: a consequence of waking the divine wrath of God. Families are torn apart and the skies are unreachable when the entire city is fragmented by language barriers too difficult to overcome. Aziraphale, having grown rather fond of the Babylonians, tries to bring families back together, and learns what a second chance for humanity looks like after the Flood.Fortunately for him, Crowley is just about demonic enough to be willing to work with him against God's punishment.(This series is set in a connected and canon-compliant universe, but all works can be read as a stand-alone.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: six thousand twenty-three years and counting (or: the shared history of an angel and a demon) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092272
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> some notes on the use of Crowley's name and my general view on language in the Good Omens universe are at the bottom because it's a lot. enjoy reading!

Babylon, the region of Shinar, Mesopotamia

2834 BC

Babylon is a sight to behold.

Aziraphale holds his breath, his fingers pressed together. Humans push past him impatiently, barely paying any attention to him. It’s a good thing; the journey he took here was a harsh one, with many ragged souls who he tried to calm. The presence of an angel is often noticed when said angel has out his wings, and really, it’s not as if Aziraphale truly wanted the attention, but it’s the only thing he could think of to keep their hopes up.

All around Mesopotamia, tiny little towns that are building up not nearly fast enough to keep fed the people. Aziraphale tried to feed them and give them water, but none of that sustenance lasts nearly as long as hope. So he’d kept his wings out, and yes, he’d dealt with the humans crying at the sight of him, praying to him, asking him for divine interventions of their suffering.

Gabriel had told him to stop, though. And Aziraphale doesn’t want to admit he is relieved that angels aren’t supposed to go noticed anymore. He rather likes it like this - almost as if he is one of the humans. So peculiar.

So although poverty reigns Mesopotamia for now, _this_ is what gives Aziraphale hope. This city, this town, rebuilt from a divine Flood, proving that humanity will get back up. That She didn’t end it, that She wasn’t _that_ upset with them. They’ve certainly rebuilt something greater than they ever had before! The Tower - oh, the Tower.

One hundred and seventy years after the Flood, and Aziraphale sees the humans pick themselves up and build themselves a way into the sky. They will make it high enough to reach the stars, the Babylonian people whisper, excited and proud. They’ll make it tall enough to puncture the clouds and go up into the night, and live forever among that soft light.

Aziraphale doesn’t believe they’ll reach quite so high, of course. He just - enjoys. The humans are craftier than ever, and his brain hurts thinking of how they even got the Tower together. They all worked together, he heard, the brightest humans of them all, to talk about _structure_ and _stone_ and something to do with a lot of numbers.

Aziraphale has never created something in his life. He’s just here to stand guard over it, and watch them blossom, so that’s what he does.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” a woman breathes next to him. Her hair is greyed, only two strands visible from how it’s hidden underneath beautifully woven cloth. Her eyes are a dark and warm brown, crow’s feet all around them and wrinkling further into her face. 

“Absolutely stunning,” Aziraphale admits. “Have you been here for long, if you don’t mind me asking?”

She smiles. It makes the creaks in her face even deeper. The sun has beaten down on her for her whole life, and she’s come out of it like this; her hands are worn and alive with all kinds of spots as she holds onto a basket with expensive cloth. She has clearly made a good life for herself, here, and Aziraphale can feel her pulsing with love for this place, for her family nearby, for the bustling and magnificent city.

“I’ve always lived in Shinar,” she says, “a little to the south, in my childhood. My husband brought me to Babylon, though, right when they started building the Tower. He’s helped a bit with the construction, here and there. There’s pieces of my family in there. And something this grand - the Tower will never die. There will always be him, right there, even after we are gone.”

“Right you are,” Aziraphale says, and hums pleasantly. “Is it safe to go up there, you think?”

“Oh, I’m sure it will be, once it’s finished,” the woman says. “Are you new in town?”

Aziraphale smiles. “Just arrived,” he says. “I heard so much about the Tower, and - well, how could I not come to see it! And it’s better than all the tales.”

She nods resolutely. “You must come and stay with my family,” she says. “My name is Binah. We will make dinner for you, and you can tell us all about your journeys!”

How he admires these humans. Babylon has made a society for itself that Aziraphale hasn’t yet seen in humanity. They all work together so beautifully, and they’ve made something so grand. He can’t quite manage to dislike her for the pride so evident in her tone - certainly, they’ve all earned a bit of pride. 

“It would be an honour,” he says, and lets her lead him to her home.

~*~*~*~

Binah’s family is lovely. Her family is open and welcoming; she has four daughters who are at home, and her husband Yahir is a man who laughs as much as she does. He is large in every way, in a way that makes it seem that even his facial attributes are fighting for a spot on his face. His skin is just as spotted with age as Binah’s is, but it doesn’t seem to stop him from lifting up the youngest members of his family and twirling them around.

“She brings home strangers all the time,” says Yahir, his grandchildren yelling as they run outside their home. They have a large place to stay; better than some of the less fortunate families Aziraphale has visited. There is bread and wine enough for all of them, and they do not worry about days to come.

“She is a lovely woman,” Aziraphale assures him. “I am very glad to have happened upon her.”

“We are fortunate to have you!” Yahir says, broadly smiling. “We do not often have strangers who have travelled such large distances to our humble abode. Babylon’s name is rising, and it will be sung many times more in the future; but you come from much farther than any other we have had in our home, and your stories are lively and rich. It can be hard to believe that one man has seen this much.”

Aziraphale blinks. He hasn’t really thought about how much he’s told about his journey; he just picked a point and started from there. Truth to be told - he started travelling twenty years ago, when he first heard of Babylon and its massive Tower. Since then, it’s obviously grown a lot, so maybe it’s good he made a lot of pit stops.

Besides, he just doesn’t like living on the road. It always fills him with dreadful antipathy to travel again: it’s the sand sticking in his clothes and hair, and sitting on the mules. Maybe he can stay here for a couple of years. Gabriel has never terribly minded it when Aziraphale sticks to one place, although he always feels a bit guilty for not travelling Earth as he ought to.

Well. He’s only one angel. Can hardly be expected to be everywhere at once, can he?

He smiles again, covering Yahir’s hand with his own. “It has been a rather long journey,” he says. “There are still a great many small villages who cannot yet sustain themselves. I have faith, however, that they will all grow to be as bountiful as Babylon!”

“Ha,” Yahir says, and winks at him. “Let us hope our fortune will spread. The flood that my grandfather’s grandfather has preserved in stories still haunts the people, but no longer. We will pierce the clouds and find our way home to the skies!”

Aziraphale leans back, ignoring the children that tug at his sleeves. It doesn’t take long for Yahir to put them to bed, and then offer him his own sleeping space; small but doable, and it’s for him alone, which is a rare thing to find. He must have put someone out of a bed.

He doesn’t sleep that night, but listens to the welcome sounds of a city that is awake even during the night, and is the first to rise in the morning.

~*~*~*~

There is heavy rainfall in the marketplace.

Aziraphale wouldn’t mind so much. Rain is a part of this world that he rather likes, although it’s a rare enough thing. Storms come and go, but most of the time, the sun beats down on the sand and its people. He’s heard that there’s more rain, if one were to travel north and west. Some angels have grumbled that it barely ever stops.

It seems delightful, to Aziraphale. The splatter of water on his face, drenching his clothes; it feels like a cleansing. Moreover, it gets the sand out of his hair better than any time in a bath ever has.

He has found a little place of his own to stay, in the few weeks he’s been in Babylon. Every morning, he watches the men go off to the Tower. It rises a little bit each day, firm and tall and proud, and he hears the people laugh in joy at their fortune and be in awe of their own achievements, and Aziraphale would be wrong to say he isn’t somewhat proud of them.

The rain lets up a little while he watches them once again, the marketplace freer of people than it usually is. Most people avoid the rain, if they can. Storms aren’t well-liked, but the slightest bit of sun will always draw people back outside.

The sun peeks between the clouds. Aziraphale smiles tightly and walks past one of many statues. He’ll never get used to the priests clothing their statues and laying out food before them; the wealth is unnecessarily wasted on it, he thinks, but the Babylonians believe that the statues are actually bodies for their gods. This one represents Marduk, he recalls vaguely, and turns his attention back to the stalls. 

He just wants to find some dried fruit. Wonderful, what humans manage to do; if they need to bring fruit, they dry it! It’ll last them longer and it tastes a little differently, but still very good.

He doesn’t hassle about the price at the first stall he finds the wares he is looking for. He shoves a few coins in the woman’s hand and takes the fruit.

“Do you need bread, too?” she asks him eagerly. “My aunt, her bread is the finest in Babylon - just over there -”

“No, thank you,” he says resolutely. “I really must be going.”

“In such a hurry, are you?” a new voice comes. Male, drawn out. Very, very familiar, and one that Aziraphale hasn’t heard in one hundred and seventy years.

Crowley leans against the stall, drawn in black as always. He does not look like he’s been walking around in the rain; his red curls fall over his shoulders immaculately. He gives off the air of someone not interested in his surroundings at all, except for the way his snake eyes are solely fixed on Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says.

“Hullo, angel,” Crowley says, and sniffs his nose. “I see you’ve made your way to the delight of Shiran. You’ve found Radjni’s dried fruit stall! Still overpricing those apricots, aren’t you?”

The woman, Radjni, smiles deviously. “Not overpricing,” she says, raising a finger. “The best in the region. It’s a secret family recipe, you see, we simply dry them better than everyone else.”

“What are you _doing_ here?” Aziraphale says, and if he sounds a bit exasperated - well, Crowley’s a demon, technically, and a foul enemy, belonging to Hell’s agents, and always up to no good. 

Crowley makes a noise. “What am _I_ doing here?” the demon repeats, offended. “I’ve been in Babylon for two years! I’m - I’m - I’m doing all sorts of heinous acts, of course. Toppling the economy with overpriced fruits, whispering in people’s ears, derailing society. All of that.”

“He took a nap in the sun yesterday,” Radjni says conspiratorially. “Just lied down in the sand and didn’t move for four hours. One of the young ‘uns went to poke him with a stick and he didn’t move. Thought he was dead, she did, and then he just rolled over and continued.”

Aziraphale blinks. Crowley sputters. 

“Do you do that often?” Aziraphale asks, furrowing his brow. “Just - go to sleep somewhere out in the open and not wake up?” It seems somewhat dangerous to him, leaving his body unguarded for anyone to see him. For a demon to leave himself so defenseless… it doesn’t make much sense. If an angel had happened upon him, he’d have discorporated Crowley, or maybe even _destroyed_ him.

“I’m a deep sleeper,” Crowley says, and smiles vaguely at Radjni. “See you later, woman. Just got to talk to my friend here.”

“Bye, Pazuzu!” she yells after him.

With that, he takes Aziraphale’s hand and drags him along. The marketplace is slowly filling, the rain stopping and a watery sun appearing above their heads. A rainbow is visible just behind the Tower of Babel, and Aziraphale twists himself so that he doesn’t have to look at it as Crowley stops in an abandoned street, a few turns away from the stalls.

“We’re not friends,” Aziraphale says strictly. “And Pazuzu? _Really?_ Did you change your name _again?_ ”

“ _That’s_ what you want to focus on?” Crowley asks him incredulously, and shakes his head, running a hand through his curls. “And no, I didn’t change my name, I’m just trying to _fit in_ a little better - you know, never mind. Really, Aziraphale, what in the blessed world do you think you’re doing in Babylon?”

“The Lord works everywhere,” Aziraphale says, “through angels that step everywhere. All cities and hamlets in this world belong to the Lord -”

“That’s bullshit,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale makes a displeased noise and crosses his arms. Crowley raises one eyebrow very delicately and tilts his head. Aziraphale sighs. “I just wanted to see it. I’ve heard humans talk about the Tower they’re building in Babylon, and I was - curious. Most societies are rebuilding so slowly, and there are a great many issues, but in Babylon…”

“They’re not just rebuilding,” Crowley finishes for him, and his golden eyes go past Aziraphale. Aziraphale turns; the demon is looking at the rainbow, too, and something twists in Aziraphale’s chest. “They’re thriving.”

“Yes,” he admits. “I wanted to see why they are doing so well here. I wanted to see if there was a way to spread Babylon’s fortune to other regions that are having more trouble, still.”

Moreover, he just wanted to get away from the suffering for a bit. Aziraphale wouldn’t want to say it aloud; he is an angel. Broadly speaking, his place is _with_ those who are suffering. It _should_ be his place, anyway, and he’s spent a great many years helping out. It just never seems to make much of a difference.

It won’t hurt too much if he just - stays here, for a few years, will it?

“Well,” says Crowley in thought, “turns out that having a common goal will do a lot for them. The Tower really got them all together. It’s sacrilege, with the Tower being built in the name of Marduk, of course, but who’s really keeping count?”

“Oh, don’t start,” Aziraphale mutters.

“I’m not!” Crowley protests. “Look, can you just do me a favour? We’ll do what we’ve done before, I’m staying out of your way if you stay out of mine. And I _was_ here before you, so fair seems fair, is all I’m saying.”

Aziraphale considers the demon before him. He’s met some of the nastier ones, of course; he’s even had to fight one or two, although he’s always managed to stay away from any discorporation happening on either side. Horrible business, really, and he doesn’t have his sword anymore. Crowley is the only one who has really ever taken an interest in him and his experience with the human world; even Gabriel, when Aziraphale asked about some of the reports he’s sent in, had just vaguely hummed and sent him on his way.

But Crowley - Crowley was there, during the Flood. He’d been shocked to hear about Heaven’s plans, disgusted by the deaths of children. Aziraphale wasn’t able to do anything, of course, God’s judgment being as it was, but his own revulsion had been mirrored in Crowley.

He’s not sure if that says something about him or about the demon, and frankly, it’s not something that bears thinking about. All he knows is that Crowley has shown up multiple times during the thousand years they’ve been here, and he’s been more interested in him than all the angels in Heaven combined. 

He can feel himself leaning towards it, and shakes himself out of his thoughts.

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale says. “If you’re doing something - _wiley_ \- then I have to thwart you, of course. I’m an angel, and I don’t like what you’re implying.”

Crowley groans theatrically and throws up his hands. “So you’re going to be like that about it, then? Fine. _Fine_. You do whatever you want to, angel. Have fun with Radjni’s apricots.”

He stalks off, all long limbs and vibrant hair. Aziraphale looks after him until the demon has disappeared in the streets of Babylon, and wonders if he should do something about Crowley’s presence here. It’s not as if he knows what Crowley is planning, though. Maybe it’s best to let matters lie.

He takes his dried fruit and returns to his home.

~*~*~*~

Binah and Yahir invite him at least once a week, and Aziraphale always accepts. Four daughters still live with them, one of them wedded, one of them widowed, and both with children, and it is always such a lively and warm home that he can’t resist. He could do without the toddler pulling on his robes. He prefers buying his clothes; the linen and wool feel sublimely real against his skin, and he’s never felt comfortable miracling on the robes. He’d rather not have it ripped by the child’s grubby little hands.

Aziraphale, upon seeing the small Apsu crawl over to him again, scoots a little further away from him.

“Ah, my friend,” Yahir laughs. “Is he bothering you again? The little demon-figure, you’d give Asag a run for his money, you would!”

The mention of the local demon, Asag, has Aziraphale squirming in his seat again, just as Binah offers him a cup of wine. It is sour and bitter, but it’s better than the ale, so Aziraphale takes it gratefully.

Yahir scoops up his grandson, and Apsu laughs like only a child can. His dark brown eyes focus on Aziraphale, though, his hands reaching for him again.

“You must forgive him,” Binah says. “Foreigners are odd to him, still.”

“Ah, it’s not a problem,” Aziraphale says. “Tell me, how is his mother? Is Zirat feeling better?”

“She is!” Yahir says, pressing Apsu closer to his chest. “The soup you gave helped tremendously, she said. She is still resting, but she will be back to her feet in no time at all, we have faith. You have been sent by the goddess Gula, no doubt!”

“Nothing quite like that,” Aziraphale says awkwardly. It’s hardly the first time he’s encountered polytheism, but it always feels a bit odd. Besides, it’s hard to keep tracks of all the gods and goddesses that are worshipped in Babylon.

“No modesty,” Yahir says, and Apsu babbles after him. “You are a wonderful friend to this family, Aziraphale, and I thank Marduk every day for your presence in Babylon. When the Tower is finished, I shall take you to the top and watch the stars with you to thank you.”

Aziraphale offers him a tight smile. The Tower of Babel is nearing completion with every single day. Yahir is more important in its building process that he’d known beforehand; he works personally for a man named Meskalamdug, who had brought Yahir and his family from a more southern region when work on the Tower first commenced. Meskalamdug is one of the main builders of the Tower, together with his two brothers and a few other men, mainly priests of Marduk.

“I am sure the view will be magnificent,” he says, and feels a twist of guilt in his chest. “Although, Yahir, don’t you think that - erm, the _gods_ \- as you say -”

“Ah,” Yahir says, nodding. “I know you don’t believe in Marduk, my friend. Nevertheless, I am sure you will be convinced of his power once the Tower is finished. The stars will speak the truth, I am sure. You are not the first foreigner to come to Babylon and find the gods in his heart.”

“I serve only one God,” Aziraphale says, suddenly feeling more strict, “and it’s the true one. It is the Lord that made this world and its stars, and the sun, and all the planets you look at, and the people who look at them.”

“But does your God have a Tower built in His name?” Yahir says.

“Erm, no,” Aziraphale says. “I rather think She’s not very fond of that sort of thing.”

Yahir grins. “We will find the truth of our gods on top of the Tower, I am assured of it. We will pierce the stars, and enter the Heavens, and meet our gods.”

“I am not quite sure that it works even slightly like that,” says Aziraphale, who knows full well that Heaven and Hell can’t be touched from Earth due to it existing on an entirely different metaphysical plane of reality.

“Well, then,” Yahir says. “If it doesn’t, you’ll be proven right!”

He’s also not sure that _that_ is entirely true, but he’ll drop it.

~*~*~*~

He does not spend all his time with Yahir’s family, of course. Normally, he roams around Babylon and finds little jobs to do. Even in a city as prosperous as this, there are those who are less fortunate; families in small homes, with too many mouths to feed and not enough money. 

Aziraphale leaves a few blessings here and there, buys more barley bread and a flask of wine that is more expensive than Aziraphale can really justify to himself. It makes for something good to nibble on when he sits in the market place again, setting himself just far enough outside of humanity to just watch them. The Tower of Babel is visible at this point.

He’s debating on whether he should go and check on its progress when he recognises Radjni. There are a dozen people in front of her stall, business apparently going well. Some other entrepreneurs in the dried fruit business look quite put out, and Aziraphale frowns. He wonders if it’s Crowley’s doing or if it’s just Radjni’s fruit being well-liked. He can’t feel any sense of a demonic miracle lingering around her, but still.

Most of the afternoon he spends by talking to several men passing him by and wanting conversation. Aziraphale’s corporation is fair-skinned, and the lightness of his curls do him no favour in fitting in between the dark-skinned and dark-haired natives of Mesopotomia. 

In the Garden, he hadn’t been a foreigner. Adam and Eve had never asked him about what it meant that their skins looked so different. Now, everyone is asking him about his travels. Fortunately, many of them are also eager to tell stories of their own, which Aziraphale enjoys far better. The imagination of humans is limitless.

When evening comes, and the sun starts setting, Aziraphale gets up and walks over to Radjni. She is carefully assembling her dried fruits, packing them up.

“Do you take those home?” he asks her carefully. She is alone, and there are some boxes remaining. Undoubtedly, it will be too much of a job for her to carry them all.

She twirls to meet him face-to-face, and recognition dawns in her eyes. “Pazuzu’s friend,” she says, and grins. “Are you looking for him?”

“Erm, no,” Aziraphale says. “He’s not really a _friend_ , you see. He’s - someone I keep running into rather unexpectedly. I did not know he would be in Babylon and I hadn’t seen him for a number of years.”

“So you do want to see him?” she presses.

Aziraphale tightens his mouth. “I want to know why he is here, and what he told you,” he says.

Her demeanour shifts. She rests one hand on her hip, and with the other, she tightens her robes around her. Some of her dark hair falls out over her face, and she blows it to the side.

“I don’t see why I should tell you, if he hasn’t himself,” she says.

“You don’t understand,” Aziraphale hurries to say, “I just - I’m concerned for you. Cro - erm, _Pazuzu_ is - he’s not what you think he is.”

“Isn’t he?” Radjni says. “He has been a loyal customer for over two years, going so far as to help my family when my brother died. His skin is as pale as yours and his eyes are those of a devil, but he has, as far as I’m concerned, never gone up to ask me about another man’s business.”

Aziraphale has sometimes privately worried that Crowley is a far better demon than the others in Hell simply because he understands how humanity works. Most demons would never be able to live among them, not more than weeks at most. Crowley has never seemed that concerned about any of it. Sometimes Aziraphale thinks that Crowley just met the first people that God ever created, tempted them, and then slithered on under the impression that he could tempt whoever came next.

It’s an unkind thought. Crowley isn’t to blame for all the souls in Hell, and he’s definitely not to blame for Aziraphale’s failings when it comes to bonding with humanity. But the fact that he stands before a woman yet again, her eyes fiery and defensive, makes him think of Eve. She hadn’t hated Crowley. She’d been glad. She’d been _free_ , she’d said.

“I’m only trying to help,” Aziraphale says. 

Radjni raises her eyebrows at him. “I do not need help,” she says. “And if you want to know Pazuzu’s business, you should just go and find him.”

“Where?” he asks, resigned. Radjni is the only one he knows that knows Crowley, and he could ask around in the marketplace, he supposes, but - well, Crowley did offer him to tell him earlier, didn’t he? It is much easier to go and see the demon than it would be to spend a lot of time and effort into tracking him down.

She nods in the general tendency of the Tower. “Drinking with Ahu-Shina, in all likelihood,” she says wryly. “Two blocks down the road, take a right into a small side street with a lot of shouting. If they’re spilling booze all over you, you’re in the right place. Iddin-Esthar owns it.”

Aziraphale thanks her politely, although she only just scoffs at him and continues to stock her boxes. When a dark-eyed man comes to help her, Aziraphale lets go of his hesitant thoughts of helping and just takes off. It’s probably her husband or a relative, and if he knows anything, it’s that they tend to be wary of strange men hanging around women.

It doesn’t take long for him to find the right place. He can hear cheers and glass breaking, and figures he must be going in the right direction. There is the cacophony of loud drumming on tables, and when he winds down the next side-street, he can see plenty of men outside, howling with laughter and ale in their cups. With the sun having set, he has to peer carefully to see if he can recognise anyone. 

He pushes past the crowd, ignoring the pats on his back and the shouts at his person. They are having some sort of celebration, it seems, and he swirls around.

“Aziraphale!”

He frowns as Yahir slides next to him, clasping his arm. His face is open and warm, the white of his eyes gone a little red with too much alcohol.

“Erm, hello,” he says. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Me?” Yahir exclaims. “I didn’t know that _you_ would be here, my friend.”

“Neither did I, really,” Aziraphale confesses.

Yahir laughs heartily. “Come, come,” he says. “This is a large celebration! The building of the Tower will begin its final stages tomorrow. Meskalamdug is glad about our progress; you should meet him! He will be glad to meet with you. There’s another foreigner, you see, and he helped with the Tower. He is here too - come, you should meet!”

Aziraphale has a sinking feeling that he knows what foreigner that would be. “No, no,” he hurries to say, and extracts himself from Yahir’s grip. “Thank you, but I’d rather go home.”

Yahir softens, and it almost looks like he sobers apart from the way he’s still gently swaying. Leaning towards him, he grasps Aziraphale’s upper arm this time, as if trying to steady himself and impart the secrets of the universe at the same time. “You will never be content in life if you fear living all the time.”

Aziraphale takes a step back and bumps into another man. With a stammered apology, he flees towards the edges of the party. Only when he feels the fresh air again, at the side of the crowd, he breathes out and leans against the wall. The stone digs into his skin, leaving pink marks that fade within a second.

When he looks up, he stares right into the face of Crowley, curls sweeping down his cutting cheekbones, serpent-eyed glance weighing heavily on him even as two elegantly raised eyebrows are the only things giving away even an ounce of surprise.

“Crowley,” he breathes, and almost steps towards the only being familiar in this whole wide world.

Crowley holds up a single finger and brings it to his lips. Aziraphale falls quiet, not moving, as the demon instead leans over to whoever he is with. It is a middle-aged man, very distinct with royal features and a generous mouth. He doesn’t seem inebriated like the others around him.

The man’s lips twist into something resembling a grin as Crowley whispers in his ear. Aziraphale watches him perhaps too intently, his fingers twitching against the fabric of the robes he wears. The man’s eyes fall on him, thoughtful. When Crowley pulls away from him, he grins and nods.

Crowley takes the first step towards him. Aziraphale turns on his heels and moves in the opposite direction, away from the crowd, away from the demon; he needs fresh air and space, and it’s only sensible that he can’t talk to Crowley while there’s so many people around. 

When he’s fled far enough, he stops in the middle of a street. At this point of the day, it’s deserted, although he can hear noises inside the houses. Laughing again, but milder, more joyous and less alcohol-induced. The clinking of plates and the crying of a child.

He turns, but no one has followed him. Aziraphale doesn’t know why he half-expected the lanky form of Crowley to show up from the shadows, but he waits a full minute and it doesn’t. There’s no one here.

Starting to walk more slowly, he starts on the path that leads to home.

~*~*~*~

Binah has brought six daughters and two sons to life, she told Aziraphale upon a time. Two children had died before growing up; both her sons, Binah had said, and she’d seemed sorrowful over the subject, but mostly practical. There were six other children to raise and love, beautiful little girls. Two of them are away. One of them lives in Babylon with her husband’s family, the other is somewhere in the south of Shinar, where Binah originally came from.

Apsu is the only child of Zirat, the second-eldest daughter, but she is heavy with a second child, uncomfortable most of the time. Aziraphale has done some minor miracles to lift her pains, but her husband Kurum is away more often than not. He works for Meskalamdug, like Yahir does, but he serves as a messenger, which means he’s more often not in Babylon than he is.

The eldest daughter, Isthana, lost her husband years ago, but she has a daughter and two sons. The eldest son is an active lad of ten named Babum, but Tuge is quieter and sometimes comes to sit with Aziraphale whenever he wants to hear a story, and he can always be found with his sister Anu, like they’re a world made up of two. 

The two other daughters are substantially younger than their two older sisters, presumably because the deceased children were born in between. Sabit is fifteen and a wonderful cook with the best nose for spices, eager to please and always painfully shy whenever Aziraphale offers her anything he got from the market. She doesn’t look him in the eye, not like her sister Imma does, bold and flashy and never afraid to tell him what has happened in Babylon that day, even if he doesn’t necessarily like to indulge in gossiping.

Aziraphale has come to know their family altogether too well. He spends much of his time at their family home, so much more well-loved than his own humble abode. The youngest children can sometimes be a bit overwhelming, but they’re always well-meaning, and Sabit always has some food to share. She will tell Aziraphale about the young man that she fancies, although she won’t use as many words, and her words drip with so much love that Aziraphale ends up feeling warm and giddy.

All of them _love_ , so much. He isn’t sure whether he found Binah because she was overflowing with so much fondness for her family or whether she was attracted to him because of it, but he thanks God every day for being here. Their joy, in the heart of Babylon, in a land that was ravaged by water not two hundred years past and has not yet found its footing since, shows him that there really is a Plan. That She doesn’t abandon Her children so easily and without cause.

In the love there is in the family that Binah and Yahir have made for himself, he finds back something of Hers that he hasn’t felt since the Flood.

~*~*~*~

The Tower is gorgeous. It reaches for the sky, even with the top layer not yet built, but Aziraphale can almost imagine how it will look like when it is. The first layer of the Tower of Babel is chunky and broad, almost as if the people weren’t really sure of what they were doing when they began. With every story that it rises, however, so does the skill. 

There is a pleasant buzz during the day, plenty of men around to work. Aziraphale doesn’t know the intricacies of building; he wasn’t there when the Wall was created around Eden and he hasn’t actually been involved much with any - _building_ afterwards. Some angels had made some of the things on Earth, of course, and there’d been those who built stars and supernovas and moons, but Aziraphale’s job has always been to protect instead of make.

He thinks of Crowley when he cranes his neck to look at the top. Hadn’t he made some of the stars? He’d mentioned it before. 

“What do you think, then?” 

“I am perplexed beyond words,” Aziraphale admits. Meskalamdug smiles, nods his head as in thanks. Aziraphale can see why Yahir works for him; Meskalamdug is a kind man, ambitious but fair. He wants to reach stars, and he wants to reach the gods, and Aziraphale has known enough humans with the same desires to not judge him for it. 

Everyone likes to hear from their Maker, once in a while, he reflects.

“It is a team effort, of course,” Meskalamdug. “Many of our finest thinkers have thought up the design. The priests assure me that we’ll reach high enough to race the clouds home!”

“It’ll reach higher than anything I’ve ever seen, certainly,” Aziraphale says.

Meskalamdug tilts his head. “Yahir tells me you don’t put faith in Marduk - that none of the gods hold your fancy. Are you not a religious man, then? Do you not believe that we will meet the gods when the Tower is finished?”

“It’s not that,” Aziraphale hastens to say. “I - erm, I think it’s justified to say I _am_ religious. Very much so, in fact. But it’s not Marduk that holds reign over Earth, nor any of the other gods you follow. There’s only _one_ God, you see, the Lord who made Heaven and Earth. And the Tower will not reach that far, because it is beyond humanity’s reach. Not, erm. You won’t be able to reach it until, hm. Until _death_ , that is.”

“This God of yours,” Meskalamdug says, and waves his hands in the general direction of the Tower. “Does He have enough power to have us create this?”

“I rather don’t think this is the sort of stuff She concerns Herself with,” Aziraphale says.

Meskalamdug lets out a laugh. “I don’t believe it,” he says. “Your God is one that is foreign to me. Your God isn’t one that has helped Babel - we have built ourselves up, and Marduk is the one who has assisted us. What God as powerful as yours would allow us to worship another in His place?”

Aziraphale blinks and folds his hands together. “Well, that’s rather the point of the thing,” he says pointedly, and suddenly it’s more familiar, like an age-old argument. _Why not put it on the top of a high mountain? Or on the moon? Makes you wonder what God’s really planning._

“The point of what?” Meskalamdug asks.

“Humanity, of course!” Aziraphale says. “You have to _choose_ Her. She doesn’t make your choices for you - you can, of course, choose to follow Marduk if you want, and Utu, Nanna-Suen, Nergal, Nabu, Inanna, Ashur, take your pick. But there is only One up there in Heaven, and She is so far away not even the Tower will reach it, magnificent as it is.”

“I’m sure you believe in your God,” Meskalamdug tells him, “but you must be aware that your talk will not do you much good in Babylon. You sound like the priests of Marduk. Perhaps they will be able to convince you; religious talk has never been one of my strong suits. Here, let me introduce you to Ahu-Shina. He’ll be able to appreciate some religious sparring, I’m sure.”

Aziraphale is in doubt, but he follows when Meskalamdug steers him closer towards the Tower. From here, he has less of a complete view of it, but it looms over him all the more, casting a cold shadow on the ground. A large statue stands before what would be the entrance of the Tower, for all intents and purposes embodying the god Marduk.

Aziraphale looks at it for a moment. He’s seen multiple statues in Babylon, of course; there’s not really getting around it. He has even met some of the priests, who diligently take care of the statues. There’s food for the gods, and they are dressed in good clothes.

None of the statues he’s seen is as large as this one.

Meskalamdug sends him a knowing look, and then moves Aziraphale forward, putting him in the path of Ahu-Shina and another man. He’s vaguely familiar, and Aziraphale squints.

“Aziraphale,” Meskalamdug starts, “this is the head priest of the Tower of Babel, Ahu-Shina, and my brother Appanili. Both have contributed enormously to the start of it, and even now oversee most of the physical work. Shanalug, my youngest brother, is also involved, although he is currently up in the Tower itself with the other two priests.”

“Very good to meet you, Aziraphale,” Ahu-Shina says, and Appanili gives him a welcoming nod. Aziraphale just stares at him and then still as he finally places the features, the wide mouth and straight nose, and stills in realisation.

“Aziraphale is a close family friend of Yahir,” Meskalamdug tells them. “He has been in Babylon for a few months now.”

“Erm, good to meet you,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sorry - you seem very familiar. Were you, by any chance, at the celebration, three weeks ago? I think I saw you there.”

“Ah, yes, you did,” Appanili says, grinning teasingly. “Pazuzu wanted to introduce you, but you sprinted off like the demon Asag would do upon seeing Ninurta!”

Being compared to a demon - from any mythology, really - is almost enough to make Aziraphale frown, but he just smiles politely. “I wasn’t feeling too well,” he says. “I’d had some bad grapes that day, you see. I certainly didn’t mean to come off as rude.”

Humans, as he’s come to understand, will drop any subject when anything referring to defecation comes up. Appanili just tilts his head in understanding, and Ahu-Shina lets out a quick chuckle.

“So you’re familiar with our friend Pazuzu, then?” he asks.

“You know him, too?” Aziraphale responds.

“Certainly!” Ahu-Shina says. “No one better to have a good nightcap with! That man will give any priest a run for his money, you see. We’re still not entirely sure he hasn’t been sent by the gods himself, of course, if only he hadn’t been so sacrilegious. Unnatural, it is.”

“The eyes, you mean?” Aziraphale can’t help but ask.

Ahu-Shina roars with laughter, and Appanili joins him. It seems like Aziraphale is missing some sort of joke, but at least he’s not alone in it; Meskalamdug gives a good-natured chuckle, but otherwise seems to miss the point as well.

“The red hair, of course!” Appanili says, and shakes his head. “Anyway, come. We can show you around the Tower. Have you ever seen anything as magnificent? No, no, don’t answer that, it is a rhetorical question, because you have never seen anything like this, of course -”

Aziraphale just trails behind the two brothers and the priest, and tries to ignore his concerns about Crowley’s involvement.

~*~*~*~

Aziraphale has been in Babylon for four months when Zirat goes into labour.

He is telling a story to Tuge and Anu. The story of Cain and Abel, to be precise, although he changed the names a little to fit better with the current geography and times. He also leaves out the part of Cain killing Abel, replacing it with Cain eating all of Abel’s favourite plums, as Anu had done to Tuge.

He’s not sure the story is really hitting all the right marks. Tuge is just huffing at the parts where Cain, clearly referring to his younger sister Anu in this case, is the elder sibling. Maybe he should’ve changed history a little more in order to be a lesson to the children; although, he’s not sure they would still be able to understand it as well. He can hardly expect two children of seven and eight years old to follow a parable, can he now?

His tale of thievery, betrayal and the shattering of a family is interrupted when Zirat screams loudly. Binah, who had been quietly braiding Imma’s hair, curses as she sits up. Kurum, playing a game of _senet_ with Babum, turns very white, perhaps recognising the sound of that particular sound with the birth of his first child.

“The child!” Zirat wails, holding onto her belly as she leans against the walls of her home, supported by Isthana and Sabit. Liquid drips down her legs, a clear and unsubtle message of what is to come. Kurum immediately jumps up to join his wife, taking over from her sisters who both take a step away.

“I will go and find the midwife,” Isthana decides. “Sabit, come with me.”

“But the braised turnips,” Sabit protests. “They’ll go bad -”

“Leave them,” Binah decides, giving a stern look to her second-youngest daughter as Sabit opens her mouth again. “Imma can look at the turnips, if need be, and otherwise we’ll find something else. Apsu was born within two hours of Zirat’s water breaking. Hurry!”

“Erm,” Aziraphale says, and the whole family turns to him. He fiddles with his robes awkwardly. “I should - go? Good luck with the, erm, birth, Zirat -”

Binah takes his arm. “Please stay,” she asks quietly. “Kurum will need a man to reassure him when he hears his wife scream in the other room. Yahir was here for the birth of Apsu and Kurum did not stop clinging to him.”

Even though Aziraphale isn’t technically a man, he can feel himself nodding anyway. A _birth_. He’s been at a few of them, of course, but since he hasn’t presented as anything but male since they invented gender, he’s rarely been invited to stay for one, even if it’s in a different room. Birthing has been considered women’s business ever since Adam fainted for the birth of Cain.

So he sits down again, and finishes his tale for Tuge and Anu, although he’s a little distracted whilst he’s telling it. Now he can’t stop thinking about Cain’s birth, the boy that grew up to kill his own brother. He’d been there for both of them; he remembers Eve’s screams clear as day, Adam’s helplessness, and the lack of response for God as the first child was born.

When Abel was born, Cain had been so determined to be a good brother. For a child that had literally been an only child on an Earth otherwise devoid of children, he’d taken to it with an ease Aziraphale had rarely ever seen. And then a few years down the line, the first child that was born became the first murderer.

Tuge and Anu seem to notice he’s withdrawn a bit, and instead start to try and distract him from the screams that come from the other side of the home. Kurum gives into the distraction thankfully, especially when Imma and Sabit join their little group. Babum attempts to teach Apsu how to play _senet_ , but the toddler is more interested in putting the pawns in his mouth than anything else.

And so they sit, until Sabit quietly gives them all a bowl of braised turnips, not as well prepared as they normally are. None of them mention it, and just eat. Aziraphale isn’t very hungry, but moving a spoon to his mouth is a more comforting movement than he’d thought possible. Eventually Yahir comes back and joins, and gets handed a bowl of his own.

When the night has firmly settled, six hours after Zirat’s first scream, Binah comes out. Everyone tenses, sitting up straight. Aziraphale holds a breath he doesn’t technically need to take. Birthing is so dangerous, and so many women die -

Binah smiles, and the love radiating off her is enough to blind Aziraphale for a second.

“A daughter,” she says. “It’s a little girl.”

Aziraphale lets out his breath, and smiles when Kurum embraces him as if he’s had anything to do with the birth of his daughter. It’s hard to mind when the love is so tangible, almost as if he could reach and grab it from the very air.

He is convinced this little girl will live a happy life with a loving family. With a snap of his fingers, a miracle settles on the tiny shoulders of a newborn child only a few feet away. She keeps crying, unaware of the blessing.

They name her Ulsharra, and are unaware it means “joy”.

~*~*~*~

It happens in the middle of the day.

It’s been raining with peaks of sunshine bursting through. The following rainbow always leaves a bit of a sour taste in Aziraphale’s mouth, and he is a little relieved when it disappears as the rain really starts pouring, the clouds darkening ominously.

No one realises it’s unusual. Aziraphale is at the marketplace again, and he’s picking up more dried fruit, reluctantly standing in line for Radjni’s apricots. They really are the best ones available, is the thing, and Aziraphale has a particular craving.

Lightning strikes. He blinks, trying to see if it landed somewhere. He thinks it might’ve hit the Tower, but he can’t tell from this distance if it’s been damaged. 

“Meskalamdug won’t be pleased with that,” Aziraphale mutters, and taps the shoulder of the man in front of him. “I’m sorry, could you -”

The man turns to him, frowning and looking at him as if he’s a different species. And really, Aziraphale knows he looks somewhat strange still, with these people, with his fair skin and blond curls, but it’s not as if he has his wings out.

The man says something. Aziraphale now also frowns.

“Excuse me?” he asks.

The man opens his mouth again, and his tone is panicked, and he takes Aziraphale by the shoulders and shakes. This time, he speaks very clearly, slow and vowels clearly enunciated. Aziraphale still doesn’t understand a single syllable.

He turns, his senses suddenly prickling with the feeling of a miracle. There’s no other angel here - he’d feel that sort of angelic presence the moment it popped up so nearby, and it’s definitely not demonic. There’s the sense of holiness in the air, spreading.

The air tastes moist and consecrated, prickling on Aziraphale’s skin. 

“Oh no,” he mutters, pushes the man gently away and wrestles awkwardly through the line that has turned more or less into an agitated crowd. People are running, shouting, holding onto each other and then letting go when it turns out they don’t understand each other.

 _No one_ understands each other.

“Aziraphale,” Radjni says. She’s still standing behind her goods, all alone in a world of chaos. Her eyes are wide, and her fingers tremble over where she’s splashed them over her cart of gleaming apples. 

“Radjni,” Aziraphale answers. “Do you understand -”

“Thank Marduk,” she breathes out. “Everyone else - what’s happening? What happened to them?”

“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale says, and eyes the court. Certain stalls have been thrown over, food and clothes strewn over the floor, together with other things. Jewelry that was for sale now lies among stamped-upon bread and cheese. “We should leave. This is chaos.”

“My brother,” she says, panic rising and she jumps over her own stall to grab his arm, leaning against him. “Please - my brother, he’s at the Tower - I need to find my brother -”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale assures her. “Please, don’t panic. We’ll figure out what is happening, and we’ll find your brother, and then we’ll fix it. It’s going to be alright, Radjni.”

She calms a little bit after that, but only a little, and Aziraphale takes her hand to guide her out of the marketplace. Every street they pass, there’s people shouting and crying. All of Babylon has turned into chaos, and the clouds rumble hungrily, as if asking for more. A flash of lightning comes again, the rain starting up and soaking everyone to the bone.

Normally, everyone would be inside with this weather. Now, dozens of feet patter on the ground, walking through the growing puddles of water. Soaking clothes are the least of anyone’s concern; they’re trying to find people who they can understand. Aziraphale and Radjni pass one of the statues of Marduk, its wealthy gold-threaded clothes soggy and hanging miserably on its torso. The eyes seem to stare deeply into Aziraphale, and he squeezes Radjni’s hand and rushes past it.

He thinks he can hear Radjni quietly sobbing, but he pretends not to hear.

When they finally arrive at the Tower of Babel, Aziraphale stands still.

The top of the Tower has been hit by the lightning. It smolders, the fire still fighting for breath, even in the heavy rain. Most of it is still standing, but the workers are all shouting at each other. A few of them have huddled together under raggedy blankets; family, maybe, or close friends. Aziraphale recognises Meskalamdug and Appanili with a third man, presumably the third brother, Shanalug. He tries to see if Yahir is near, but he can’t see his old friend anywhere.

“Meskalamdug!” he calls out, waving. The man looks up, obviously recognising the name despite all else. He bows to his brothers, but obviously grows frustrated fast and walks towards them.

“You know him?” Radjni asks quietly. “He’s a noble.”

Aziraphale doesn’t have time to answer, and what would he say, anyway? He accidentally befriended one of Meskalamdug’s most loyal employees and worked his way in from there, probably helped by him being something of an anomaly and a spectacle with his white skin and hair. It’s not much of an infiltration story.

“Meskalamdug,” he repeats when the man reaches them.

“Aziraphale,” Meskalamdug says, and then continues in an incomprehensible wave of words that make his head dizzy to try and understand. Aziraphale shakes his head, feeling desperation setting in. 

“Can you understand him?” he asks Radjni, who just shakes her head. He breathes and snaps his fingers, muttering a quick miracle. 

Meskalamdug says something. Aziraphale still has no idea what he’s saying, which is ill news. If a miracle won’t even allow communication between them, it means that this is indeed something God intended, and definitely it doesn’t bode well for the Babylonians.

“My brother,” Radjni says when Meskalamdug falls silent, and then turns to him. “Aanepada. Is he here? Aanepada.”

Meskalamdug nods with his head towards his brothers. Appanili and Shanalug stand there, looking rather lost. No one is trying to come to them; no one is trying to contact them. Near the Tower, Aziraphale recognises Ahu-Shina, weeping openly before the statue of Marduk with three other priests.

Marduk can’t help them, but really, it’s not as if God would. Aziraphale keeps his mouth closed, tries to think away his own bitterness. God has her own Plans. Whatever She is doing, it is for a reason. It fits in the Plan. It’s for the greater good.

In order for humanity to become great, they had to fall. He can see it, now. He must believe this is the same.

When they reach the brothers, they all start talking. Neither Appanili nor Shanalug can understand Aziraphale or Radjni, but the three brothers also don’t appear to understand each other. It’s odd. Most of the workers are in chaos, he can tell from whichever ones are left here. There are two groups of two who seem to be talking, like he and Radjni can.

Maybe the situation is not unsalvageable, then. Except he’s not really sure about what to do.

“I just want to know what’s going on,” Radjni says, after it turns out that none of the brothers seem to know anything when Radjni repeats the name of her brother several times. “Aziraphale? Why is this happening? _What_ is happening?”

It’s something, alright. Aziraphale turns to her.

“There has always been one language,” he says. “Well. That’s not exactly true. There’s always been one language, except it’s been around for a little over a thousand years, and usage has changed it. There’s new words for new things all the time, of course, and there’s dialects and regional accents. And, of course, there was the language of the angels, first, but the humans can’t speak it. In general, humans have always been able to understand each other. The difference between dialects never got so big that people lost the ability to communicate.”

“What are you saying?” Radjni says, her expression hardening.

Aziraphale frowns and looks towards the sky. 

“I think we just received a rather great many differences,” he says. “I _think_ we just received a whole new set of languages.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n on Crowley's name: In the miniseries, Crowley only changes his name from Crawly to Crowley during Jesus’ death which has always struck me as… late, really, because by that point he’s been going by Crawly for four thousand years? I always thought it would be way earlier, and also, I don’t want to be calling him “Crawly” the entirety of this fic, so I changed that bit. Also, Crowley’s using a different name in this fic to fit in better with the people of Babylon. He’s going by Pazuzu, who is originally a demon/god figure in the Mesopotamian myths. Pazuzu, if we’re to believe Wikipedia, is a demon who kind of protects human from other demons. I'll leave you to ponder on that.


	2. Chapter 2

They are huddled in Radjni’s home. It’s small, but it’s closer to the Tower than Aziraphale’s is, and she wants to be ready if her brother comes home. Apparently, their aunt also lives here, but she hasn’t shown up, and Radjni seems unwilling to go out again to look for her outside, where chaos reigns and people are panicking, causing riots. It’s dangerous out there, right now, so Aziraphale doesn’t try to change her mind.

They don’t sleep even when evening comes. In Aziraphale’s case, sleep is unnecessary. He has tried it only one time and never again. In his opinion, it’s a waste of time and effort that is definitely not worth it. Who would throw away hours of the day only to wake up feeling faintly groggy and smelling of bad breath? Certainly not him.

Radjni doesn’t sleep either, though, and she does need it, no matter how distasteful Aziraphale finds the entire affair. She is huddled in a corner with a blanket, coloured with blue dyes. Half her face is hidden away, but her eyes remain alert, fixed on the door. Any time there’s any shouting outside, she starts, but when no movement comes through the entrance, she sags down again.

Aziraphale takes it upon himself to give her some wine. Radjni and her family have some good bottles in the back. Somewhat of an expensive good to help himself to, he’ll admit, but one she desperately needs right now. Since she takes the cup and downs all of it in one go, Aziraphale takes it as one of his better ideas.

“So, what about you, then?” Radjni asks after they’ve sat in silence for hours. Aziraphale straightens himself; he’d been thinking about what to do about the situation. In the small hours of the day, the noise had died down a little, but the panic will be back tomorrow.

“What about me?” he asks.

“Don’t you have a family you need to be searching for?” she presses, and gestures towards the door. “You were helping me look for Aanepada, and we have Urnina. A small family, but we’re doing well. Our business is doing well as can be, but you - what do you have?”

“I don’t have any family,” Aziraphale says.

She smiles. “Everyone does. No, they’re not here, alright, I know that. You hang around that other family often enough, I think everyone in Babylon knows that by now. But everyone has family. A father, a mother, brothers, sisters. So where are they?”

Aziraphale brings his own cup of wine to his lips, but Radjni keeps staring. It’s not as if Aziraphale hasn’t made up parts of his own history before, certainly. Binah had asked about his own roots often enough, even tried to gently ask him if he needed to find a wife, because she knew some suitable and marriable ladies who would not mind a foreign heretic such as him.

He just never really knows what to say.

“I only have a Mother,” he says, truthfully as he can. “She takes care of us. She takes care of everyone, even if they don’t know it, even if they don’t know they need to be taken care of. I love Her more than anything.”

“So where is she now?” Radjni presses.

“Heaven,” Aziraphale sighs. “I haven’t seen Her in years.”

“I’m sorry,” Radjni says, frowning. “You - you made it sound as if she still lived.”

Aziraphale smiles. If he could see his own face, he’d recognise it for the brittle thing it was. As it is, he can feel the sincerity of it breaking, and he thinks about a rainbow.

“She does,” he says quietly. “I see Her in all things. I see Her in the vibrant dye of that blanket you hold. I see it in the concern you have for your brother. I see it when Zirat holds her newborn baby, and I thought I saw it when Meskalamdug looked at the Tower of Babel.”

“That doesn’t sound the same as actually hearing from her,” Radjni says skeptically, and rises. Aziraphale doesn’t follow her, and doesn’t comment. He might have tried to explain any other day, but he feels a weariness in his bones that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

“Perhaps,” he only says, and takes another sip.

Radjni looks out of the window. There are some scuffling sounds outside, some incomprehensible yelling, and then it dies down again. No one comes inside, so it must not have been her brother or aunt. She twirls nimbly, looking at him with eyes that, in the depth of night, are as dark as coals.

“You said there were languages,” she says. “Explain what you think is happening. Are our gods mad at us? Did we displease Marduk?”

Aziraphale sighs. It seems he’ll have to explain anyway.

“There is no such thing as Marduk,” he starts. “There is only one God, the true God. One thousand and one hundred seventy years ago, there was a Garden. It was called Eden. The first two people were created by God in that Garden, and they lived there for a time. Then they were tempted by a demon, a fallen angel, into eating an apple that God had told them not to eat. This was the origin of sin. As a punishment, Adam and Eve were banished from Eden. From there on, they wandered Earth and multiplied.”

“I’m not hearing any answers,” Radjni says. “Although that raises a lot of other issues -”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale snaps, and then coughs as he looks away. “Adam and Eve had many children and grandchildren and they were given the task to spread and populate Earth. Now, whereas the angels spoke Enochian before the creation of humanity, it soon turned out that human throats weren’t quite capable of making it work. They created their own version of language so that they could communicate. Now, over the years, this language has evolved; it adapts where needs must. New words were made up. Adam was always good at that, you know, _imagination_.”

“So why is this happening?”

“I told you earlier; there are dialects. You have noticed this, in all likelihood; people pronounce words a little differently, shift around some vowels, have a different emphasis. Mostly, there’s been enough contact between all peoples that the language has evolved in one pace and in the same direction. Now, when I was talking to Meskalamdug and his brothers, and when I heard people talking at the market, there were distinct vowels I recognised, and some I did not. Somehow, the language has changed. And since there are groups of people who are able to communicate, and are completely incompatible with others, I suspect language has been - _changed_. Evolved, but with separate people having several different languages in their minds.”

“How’s that even possible?” Radjni demands. “And how do you _know_ all of this? Your god, the creation of this world, angels and demons and languages - how do you _know_ all of it?”

Aziraphale has walked through towns of people crying from hunger, starving. He’s seen people beg him for water as he passed through, and he’s seen people dying from illnesses that could have easily been prevented. After the Flood, the land was more fertile, but rebuilding has been difficult with all social structure destroyed.

He knows what it looks like when someone needs an angel. Radjni is looking like she’s starving, her fingers digging into the dyed blanket she still carries around, her eyes wild and red with exhaustion, the smudged kohl eyeliner only drawing more attention to it. She leans against her door, as if she’s certain that her family won’t come in anyway, as if in her mind, she’s already lost them to something she doesn’t understand.

Aziraphale spreads his wings. His right wing brushes past her dining table and knocks off the empty glass of wine that he’d forgotten he put there. It crashes and he winces, but Radjni just stares and brings her hand to her lips.

“What are you?” she whispers through her fingers. “Which god has - which god has such wings, like the purest of birds? Ninurtu? Utu?”

“I am none of your gods,” Aziraphale tells her gently. “I am an angel of the Lord, the only God, She who rules in Heaven. Now, don’t be afraid, Radjni. I’m the same person you have spent your day with. I still plan on finding your brother with you and finding out what exactly happened to Babylon.”

“This is not your doing?” she asks, but she takes two steps closer, having lost some of the initial reverence and now just treading on disbelief. Aziraphale’s wings flutter, itching terribly. He hasn’t had them out since Gabriel told him to stop, which means it’s been several years now. 

“It’s not,” he tells her. “I didn’t know about it. Please, don’t tell any others we may find about what I am. It’s not - something to spread.”

“Sure,” she says, hiccuping out a laugh, and then she starts crying.

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to do with that, but Radjni doesn’t seem to want him to comfort her anyway. Soon enough, she sits down as her cries become sniffles, and she falls asleep against the door. Aziraphale tucks away his wings and waits for sunrise to come.

~*~*~*~

It’s even busier and more chaotic than normal. For some reason, Aziraphale hasn’t thought about the sudden interest that everyone would have in finding people who have been - _assigned_ the same language, is the only way he can really put it.

“So what are we doing?” Radjni asks determinedly. She’s only had a few hours of sleep, but her exhaustion doesn’t show anymore. Remarkable beings, humans. Her entire world view has been shaken, her religion uprooted and her family missing, and she doesn’t miss a step as she strides besides Aziraphale.

“First,” he says, “I am going to try and find your family, or at least someone else who might be able to help. We need to know how large the groups are, I imagine. Erm. Maybe we can teach other people our language?”

“Teach them a language?” Radjni repeats. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you? Teaching a language? You just - grow up and you speak. That’s how it _works_. Languages aren’t something you _learn_ , that’s ridiculous. And if we could, how long would that take anyway?”

Aziraphale ponders it for a few seconds. “Three days?” he guesses.

“Three days,” Radjni mutters to herself, and then speaks up again. “Children take years to learn the language, Aziraphale. What do you mean, three _days?_ ”

“To be fair, children’s brains also work fundamentally different from those of an adult,” Aziraphale muses. “It might just take them longer to catch up. I’m not sure how long it will take you to learn a language, because it’s never been _done_ , obviously. It took me about three days to understand the human language, and I am probably the closest thing there is with the cognition of a human adult, so in my estimation, yes, a few days? The human part might factor in heavily, though. As I said, I don’t know.”

“Mightily useful, you are,” she says, and rubs her nose as she peers at the groups. People are still shouting. Occasionally, some of the shouting people seem like they understand others, and drift towards each other. The largest group stands near the Marduk statue, and they’re animatedly chatting.

Smaller groups are formed around it. The smallest ones are about three people now, but it doesn’t really matter how many are standing together - they all look like lost sheep, the energetic ambition in their eyes gone. Aziraphale didn’t know how much it ruled Babylon until he sees it gone. He recognises some men that he thinks worked on the Tower, standing around uncomfortably, awkward with people they probably don’t know. 

Besides language groups, there are also families and friends, hugging, crying, shouting, incomprehensible even if they had been speaking the same language. The heartbreak and fear is enough to dull Aziraphale’s hopes.

“Aziraphale!” 

He turns when Radjni speaks, only to see Crowley charging at him. 

Crowley stops in front of him, shaking at his robes, scowl present on his face. When he talks, only gibberish comes out, and Aziraphale’s heart skips a beat.

He didn’t think it would have affected him and Crowley. He’d never even considered the possibility of not being able to speak to Crowley.

“I don’t understand you,” he says, and Crowley lets out a frustrated growl and holds up a single finger, much like he had the evening of the celebration. This time, Aziraphale doesn’t stalk off but watches him intently.

Crowley gives him a meaningful look, and then points to the sky. He mimes wings, then, and follows it up by doing something too fast and complicated with his fingers to follow.

“ _Aziraphale,_ ” he says, and that’s definitely a whine.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, suddenly desperate. “I have _no idea_ what you’re saying.”

If he could, he’s pretty sure the demon would be cussing so loudly that it’d make him uncomfortable.

Crowley does something else, then. He pulls at Aziraphale’s robe again, but he pulls so hard that Aziraphale tumbles forward, closer to him. And then he switches language.

“I swear to fucking Satan, angel,” he says, and the Enochian echoes memories from so long ago that Aziraphale almost has a hard time understanding, “that if you had anything to do with this -”

“Me?” Aziraphale says shocked, and winces at how the ancient words throb in his throat. This human vessel wasn’t created for the language of angels, and he doubts he can hold a full conversation this way. “This wasn’t _me._ ”

Crowley lets go of him, and glances at Radjni for the first time. “Just God playing Her games again, then. See you found the woman. Share her language?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “Did you find anyone?”

“No,” Crowley admits, and Aziraphale winces in sympathy. It can’t have been in any way easy for him to have spent all these hours without anyone to help him make sense of it. “Vowels are all wrong. Think I got a weird language. You’ll ask Heaven?”

That’s an idea, and probably one that should have occurred to him far earlier. By the way Crowley is clipping his sentences, combined with the perpetual frown on his face, the Enochian is hurting his corporation as badly as it is Aziraphale’s. 

“Yes,” he says again. “Find Radjni’s brother for me.”

He coughs delicately into his sleeve. Crowley makes a face and scrapes his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Aziraphale can’t mind him, now, as he turns to Radjni. There is definitive interest on her face.

“Is he an angel, too?” she asks. “Pazuzu, I mean. He’s certainly more odd-looking than you. Why does he have weird eyes, and you don’t?”

Aziraphale considers her for a moment. He could tell her Crowley is a demon - _should_ , probably, ethically speaking, but he also doesn’t want to lose her out of sight. And, since Crowley is still standing there, he will probably help Radjni look for her brother, as Aziraphale is going to Heaven. It’s not as if he wants to scare her off.

“Crowley’s situation is similar to mine,” he just says. It’s not really a lie, is it? They’re both here, wanting to find some answers. “He’ll stay with you and help you with your brother. I need to go to Heaven for a while.”

“Wait, no,” she says in alarm. “Can’t he go?”

“That’s a very complicated question with a complicated answer, but the short answer is that no, he can’t,” Aziraphale tells her. 

“But I can’t _talk_ to him!”

“I’ve known him for over a thousand years,” Aziraphale says with a slight smile. “Believe me, you’ll enjoy his company far better if he can’t talk with you. Now, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He looks back to Crowley. The demon stares back at him, almost as if trying to convince him to stay instead. The gold of his irises take up most of his eye, the sclera barely visible. It betrays that he’s not as calm as he looks, and Aziraphale feels something twist in his chest. Crowley doesn’t know what’s happening, and he has no one to talk to - who knows how he spent most of this time, wondering about what was going on?

He’d known it was a heavenly interference, and yet he’d stayed. Aziraphale marvels at that, but doesn’t have time to think about it. With a last nod towards him and Radjni, he flees the market, wandering until he finds an abandoned street. 

For the second time in as many days, he stretches out his wings and crooks his neck towards the grey sky. With a single spurt, he flies into the air, feeling the air cold but not unwelcome at his neck and his bare ankles. His robes flutter in the wind, whirling around him, but Aziraphale doesn’t let it bother him and only advances in speed.

Heaven isn’t an easy place to reach. There are entrances on Earth, but none in Babylon. An angel may always find Heaven by flying up there, but it’s never certain how long it’ll take. It can be minutes and it can be days. At least it’s better than Hell, which doesn’t have this kind of alternative option.

So Aziraphale sweeps through the sky, and wishes he’d brought some dried apricots as a snack.

~*~*~*~

Heaven is not much different than it’s always been. It looks like the inside of an in-home altar. It doesn’t have the same feeling as an actual altar, though. Aziraphale has blessed enough of them, and he always does so gladly. He likes the smell of candles, and the love and faith around altars always soothes him.

Heaven doesn’t have the Earthly feel to it. It smells like cleanliness, and the air is tinged with pure holiness. It sits uncomfortably on Aziraphale’s skin, and he wonders when the last time was that he came to Heaven. For a report, certainly, somewhere just after the Flood. So - about a hundred and sixty years ago, then?

He hasn’t been back to Heaven voluntarily in over a thousand years. The guilt itches at him, and maybe it’s _him_ that is wrong in this place. Heaven is holy and good. Aziraphale will have to strive to be better, is all.

Angels scuttle around him, uncaring about his sudden appearance. The calm is a stark contrast to the anxious panic back in Babylon, and it feels surreal.

“Erm, hello,” he says when he finally finds Gabriel’s working place. It’s a large church-like building, even though churches aren’t yet in fashion, and it somehow feels too much for Aziraphale to be in. It’s all white, and Aziraphale absent-mindedly wonders when Heaven decided that colours aren’t holy enough.

Once upon a time, they’d filled the Garden with a thousand flowers and trees, animals with all sorts of colouring and decorations. Once upon a time, angels had made galaxies threaded with blue and red and gold.

The secretary, her face freckled with gold stardust above her eyebrows, the only splattering of colour that’s still allowed these days, looks up with an unamused tilt of her lips.

“Hi,” she says, and turns back to her desk.

“I don’t mean to bother,” Aziraphale hastens to say, “but I - erm, I wanted to speak to Gabriel. It’s really quite urgent.”

The angel sighs. “What’s your name?” she asks.

“Aziraphale. Erm - and you are?”

“Amaniel,” she offers, although she looks surprised he even asked. “Look, I’ll go in for you, but Gabriel’s been in a bad mood for a week, so I wouldn’t count on it too much. If you could come back in, say, a year or so -”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly,” Aziraphale says, determination settling in. “It’s about Earth.”

Amaniel’s lip twists again. “He’s definitely not going to want to make time for _Earth_.”

“Well, he’ll just have to, erm,” Aziraphale starts, and then starts wavering, because he’s talking about an _archangel_ , “make… some time, so to say. It won’t take - erm - two shakes in a lamb’s tail.”

She stares at him for a full ten seconds. Aziraphale twitches again under her gaze, but she seems to take pity on him as she rises. She enters Gabriel’s self-manufactured cathedral of an office. 

Aziraphale waits. Other angels pass him by - he waves sometimes. They all just frown at him, as if he’s an anomaly, so eventually he stops doing it. None of them want to pay attention to him - he has no purpose in Heaven. He’s on Earth, and there is no need to interact with any of them, so they don’t expect him to. What’s more, they don’t _want_ him to.

He feels homesick, all of a sudden. It’s not the first time he’s had this feeling, really, although it makes him want to curl up in himself with a cup of wine and a hot treat to warm himself up with. His hands play with a loose thread on his robe, and the real and human material grounds him a little. It still smells like Babylon, earthy and spicy, and like apricots, somehow. 

Sometimes, he just remembers, even though he doesn’t mean to. He remembers what Heaven was _before_ , and it fills him with so much sorrow and longing that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Gabriel always said that Heaven was better for throwing out the traitors, for casting out those who went against Her, and Aziraphale knows he’s right, really. The dissent was too much, the two sides at each other’s throat before the war really began.

At the same time, he can’t help but miss the easy companionship that went with the absence of any notion of “enemies”. He hadn’t had any friends, really, but he’d also always received a smile back, a pat on his back, a kind word. And half of their number had fallen down and burned in hellfire, which, to be sure, was horrible - he’d rather be in Heaven any day.

It just seems that the idea of comradery fell at the same time as Lucifer’s angels had, and now all angels have decided that it’s better not to have any sort of friendships, lest there’s another punishment. It’s a fear that is deepsated, and it makes Aziraphale nauseous any time he thinks about it, but it’s the way it is.

“Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale looks up. Gabriel stands in the door opening, just behind Amaniel, who just shrugs at him as if to tell him it’s up to him from here on. Aziraphale smiles awkwardly, and nods at Gabriel in greeting as he follows him into his office. Amaniel disappears to sit behind her desk again, and the door falls shut.

Gabriel’s office is the emptiest church Aziraphale has ever seen, with only a desk in the middle, and he hasn’t technically even seen cathedrals, since they’re yet to be built. Still, the lack of anything else makes him uncomfortable, as he’s not sure of where to look in the gaping emptiness.

“So,” Gabriel says, and sits down. His fingers tap down on his desk impatiently. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s Babylon,” Aziraphale offers, and the words come of their own volition now he finally found someone who might have answers. “The lightning struck, and the Tower was hit. Immediately, the people of Babylon were divided. It’s pure chaos, and I - I’m not sure what to do.”

Gabriel pinches his nose, muttering inaudibly to himself. Aziraphale folds his hands before him, anxious. Gabriel is his direct superior, but he’s never felt that Gabriel ever really took him seriously or that he really _liked_ him, for that matter. He didn’t use to be that way; once upon a time, he’d loved all the archangels above him. They’d been kind and they always knew the right answers.

“It’s a consequence of a much larger issue I’m dealing with,” Gabriel says, and his weariness would tug at Aziraphale’s heart if he also didn’t sound like he was blaming Aziraphale for bringing the issue to him. “The Almighty is angry with the humans, Aziraphale.”

“What, again?” he asked. “But the Flood -”

“It’s the issue with the humans,” Gabriel says. “They’re taught a lesson, and then they forget it all over again.”

“But the people in Babylon, they’re not evil!” Aziraphale can scarcely believe it. “They’re - misguided, in some ways, maybe, but they’re not bad, not at heart. They’re all thriving! They made a society that works, and they’re building a Tower -”

“That’s the problem, Aziraphale,” Gabriel snaps. “Ambition and greed - that’s what that Tower stands for. They are worshipping false gods, and they’re worshipping their own knowledge. They think they’ll reach Heaven just by building? Well, the Almighty showed them. They can’t communicate, so they won’t build. Not so clever now, are they?”

Aziraphale stares at Gabriel. “But they _are_ ,” he says weakly.

Gabriel just shakes his head. “They’re weak. They’re susceptible to evil and they fall to sin. This is why _your_ job is so important, Aziraphale. But you couldn’t save the people of Babylon. They will be divided and spread the languages over the Earth. It’s God’s will. Don’t take it too hard.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything as Gabriel leads him out, almost patting his arm as he leads him towards the door. He’s not placated by the gentle words; Aziraphale knows he is meant to lead the people towards kindness, towards Heaven. He thought he’d done well enough; he can’t save anyone personally, but he can nudge them in the right direction. 

It hadn’t been enough. Aziraphale remembers looking at the Ark, feeling the guilt and shame raised in him that first time. Now it’s back, like bile in his throat. If he were human, he’d throw up.

“Just - erm, wait, Gabriel,” he says hastily, just as Gabriel is about to throw him out. The door is already opened, and Aziraphale is an untimely intruder. Gabriel’s purple eyes focus back on him, the good-natured grin slipping from his face in under a second.

“What?”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “So - erm. She won’t - undo it, I suppose? Give people back a united language? Perhaps give back families the same language, in any case?”

“No,” Gabriel says. “Definitely not. They got what was coming to them.”

The door closes.

“I told you,” Amaniel says. “Bad mood.”

Aziraphale thinks it wouldn’t have mattered if Gabriel had been having the best week of his life. Heaven-bound angels are so far away from the humans; they’ll never understand the redeeming quality of the love one can have for a family, or the pain of not being able to speak to a friend, or the wonderful sweetness of a pomegranate.

Or perhaps Aziraphale is the one who doesn’t understand.

“Yes,” he says, and walks straight out of Heaven.

~*~*~*~

When he returns to Earth, he’s surprised to find the sun is only just rising. Flying always messes with his sense of time, although he’s never had a good feeling for that kind of thing. Time just - slips by, sometimes, when Aziraphale is thinking about humanity.

Crowley once said that he walks with his heads in the clouds. Aziraphale rather thinks Gabriel would say that he doesn’t spend enough time with his head in the clouds and rather spends too much of it on the ground.

When his feet touch the ground, just outside of Babylon, he tucks away his wings and starts walking. He could have found an abandoned street, he supposes, but that leaves a lot more chance for anyone to spot him flying, and he’d rather not get that kind of attention right now.

Two men are standing near Babylon’s gate. They talk to him, but Aziraphale simply tells them he doesn’t understand them. At that, they fall silent; he probably seems calm enough for them to guess he knows of what is going on here.

The central streets are still busy, no less chaotic than they were before. There’s less people out than there were, though, and Aziraphale walks past all of them, desolate and sad though they are. He finds his way to Radjni’s home first, but no one is there; not herself, nor her brother or aunt. 

For a moment, he wonders where to go next, but makes his mind up easily.

When he knocks on the door, Yahir is the one who opens the door. Upon seeing Aziraphale, something lights up in his eyes. He cries out something, and starts talking fast, his hands moving with each syllable. Then he falls silent, looking at him again.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I can’t understand,” he says.

Yahir’s face falls, but then he ushers him inside. Aziraphale has been here so many times now; he’s so familiar with the family. The feeling of love is now tinged with sadness and loneliness, and he wishes he could just - do something for them. He needs to do something.

“Aziraphale!” Binah cries out when he enters, but he can’t understand any of them. The entire family is here; he supposes there’s little point in going out. He just wants to open his mouth, see if there’s any of them that might understand him, when Radjni peeks out of the kitchen.

“Radjni,” he says in surprise. He’d meant to come here quickly before finding her and Crowley again. To find her here - well, he’d never have thought.

“Hi,” she says, offering a brittle smile. “Good to see you.”

“How long have you been here?” Aziraphale asks in surprise. “How - _why_ are you here?”

“You speak this language!” Isthana says, then, and embraces him. After she lets go, she seems embarrassed, but Aziraphale is delighted. There’s one among Binah and Yahir’s children that can understand him, then. That’s at least something.

“It was Pazuzu’s idea,” Radjni offers. “He said you’d want us to make sure this family was looked after, and that there might be someone who spoke our language. And Yahir’s connected to Meskalamdug, and therefore my brother, and he might have had some clues.”

There’s too much to unpack in that. “He said _what?_ ” Aziraphale asks, and then blinks. “He doesn’t speak this language. And - did Yahir have clues? Do you - understand him?”

“No, but Pazuzu does,” Isthana says. “Although it didn’t help much, since we haven’t been able to help Radjni. Anyway, Pazuzu has been translating for us. We didn’t know he was your friend.”

“He’s not,” Aziraphale says weakly. “Where is he now?”

“Right here, angel.”

He turns. Crowley stands in the door opening Aziraphale just passed through, looking for all intents and purposes as if he’s having the grandest time of his life. 

“I can understand you,” Aziraphale says breathlessly. “Oh, Crowley, that’s _wonderful_. What did you do?”

Crowley shrugs and walks past him. Now Aziraphale is looking at him, he can see the basket Crowley is carrying. There’s bread and cheese in there, a bit of meat. He might’ve gone to buy it off the market, but Aziraphale is rather sure that the market isn’t functioning anymore. He’s almost afraid to ask where it’s from, and so he doesn’t.

“You left two and a half days ago,” Crowley says, still not turning to Aziraphale as he spreads out the food on Yahir’s table. “Radjni and I spent most of it wandering the market, but no one knew of her brother or her aunt, and when we went back to the Tower, no one was there. Eventually, we came across two others who spoke her language. Radjni had a long conversation with them, most of which I didn’t understand, but then it all kind of fell in place. Like there’s a set of rules I suddenly knew, although I’d never heard of them before.”

“You learnt the language,” Aziraphale says. “Just like you learnt the first human one.”

“But it’s only me,” Crowley adds. “Radjni doesn’t understand a word of the language I first remembered, although I still seem to speak that one. Your friend Yahir’s saddled up with the same one. It’s a rough one, that. A lot of vowels. Anyway, I can understand him, and now I can understand you. Seems to work differently for the humans, though.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and winces. “I talked to Gabriel.”

Crowley twists his nose and sneezes. “You smell of Heaven,” he says, and leans against the table, now fully focused on him. “All - holily. I don’t s’pose a bath will get that out, do you? I might be having something of a reaction.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “If I bathe now, it might just turn into holy water,” he says, although he’s never really tested it. Crowley shuts up, though, which was mainly the intent as Aziraphale continues. “God’s unhappy with the Babylonians. I asked Gabriel if he could undo the language divide, but he says they’re supposed to spread the Earth in language groups.”

“Unhappy?” Crowley says. “God’s been unhappy with the humans since they were first created! I don’t see why She’s making such a fuss, since _She’s_ the one who made them in the first place!”

Aziraphale can’t really say anything, can he? He should defend Her in the face of Crowley’s spite - he should be a devout follower, and make Crowley see sense. He should be able to tell him about God’s unending Love, and her Plan. He _believes_ She knows better than him, of course; it’s God. Above all, Aziraphale can never quite believe that She would do the wrong thing.

But he stands here with the ones She is hurting, and it’s hard to speak to reason when in the face of that. Emotions rise high, and Aziraphale knows that even if he did find the right words, Crowley wouldn’t listen to them.

 _Argumentum ad captandum_ , it will be called one day, the fallacy of appealing to emotions. Aziraphale only knows how it feels.

“She is testing them,” he says quietly. “She said She would.”

“Yeah?” Crowley says, sneering. “What was the Flood, then?”

“It’s not my decision, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and crosses his arms as if to protect himself from the words. He doesn’t want to hear them, but he must. Sometimes it’s as if Crowley has been sent to Earth to test him, specifically, which is of course _nonsense_ , because demons don’t test angels and if they did, Aziraphale’s nothing special.

He’s not looking at Crowley anymore, which he doesn’t even notice until Crowley’s suddenly in front of him. The demon pats his forearm, his fingers cold and soft. Aziraphale’s gaze is pulled towards Crowley’s gold-slitted eyes. Crowley almost looks - repentant?

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley says, and his hand falls away. “Didn’t mean that. Ignore me. Jus’ talking stupid at you. Hey, now. I know it’s not your decision. C’mon, now, angel, don’t cry. Bless it, I can’t have made you cry.”

He’s - crying? Aziraphale brings a hand to his own face and comes away with a single tear on his finger. It’s not much else - just that one single drop of water that came from his eyes, and he wonders at it.

“I’ve never cried before,” Aziraphale says in wonder.

“Yes, you have,” Crowley says, but he steps away. “S’ not important. We have other things to be worrying about, let’s not bring God into the equation. There're twenty thousand people in Babylon, angel, all torn apart from their families and friends. What God’s doing is not important. What are _we_ going to do?”

Aziraphale looks at him, and at the family. Isthana, the only one who can understand him, is clutching at her husband’s arm, looking at him wide-eyed. The rest of them seem to be aware that this is an important conversation, most of them just standing still and waiting for one of them to say something.

They are so full of love, and there are a thousand families like them. Is there something he can do, with God having so clearly spoken?

There must be. He acts through God, and if he wasn’t meant to be here, Gabriel will have to pull him out personally. He can soften the blow, even if he can’t undo it. He is an angel, and he walks with his wings open through suffering crowds, all the best to relieve the pain.

“Teach them,” Aziraphale says, and looks Crowley in the eyes. “If we can teach them - if we figure out how it works, these languages - they must be able to learn. Are you - would you help?”

“Go against the punishment of God?” Crowley says, and grins. “I think I can sell that, angel.”

Aziraphale feels the thrill of something forbidden, something that burns. Crowley has never _helped_ him before. His heart hammers as he thinks of Gabriel coming up, seeing Crowley, the excuses he could make. The anxiety nearly makes him throw up, this volatile corporation of his, but it’s - it’s just a one-time thing. Gabriel’s worried about other things, that’s what he said, so the likelihood of him coming to check up on Aziraphale, well.

A one-time thing. That’s probably fine, right?

“Right, then,” he says faintly and turns to Binah and Yahir’s family, Radjni standing among them. “We’ll teach them.”

~*~*~*~

Aziraphale spends half his days at where the market used to be, just listening and trying to make sense of conversation. Crowley had told him that it took a few days of intent listening to get Radjni’s language, but the rules had clicked in place.

If there’s anything that Aziraphale is, it’s diligent. He sits among the distraught people, still trying to communicate for all intents and purposes, and he focuses. It’s easier if he focuses on one language at once; multiple make him itch, a bit, and he gets confused. He doesn’t think it’s impossible - the first two days he catches some basic phrases in about six languages, he thinks. He just wants to focus on getting one language down first.

It takes three days for him to understand what Crowley means, when he says the rules fall in place.

“- and if there’s nothing to be done, we should go west, hm? Don’t you think, my little man?” says a woman, and Aziraphale turns his head instinctively towards the language he understands. It’s a woman, dressed in poor clothes, the kohl under her eyes smudged. Her face is kind, though, and she can’t be over twenty-five. She talks to a small child, resting him against her hip in that way that speaks of years of experience.

A mother and her child. She’s talking to him softly, keeping the dark brown eyes of her son focused on her instead of the market. 

Babylon is a place of chaos, the last few days, so far gone that Aziraphale hardly recognises it. The statues of Marduk and the other gods have been defaced and their clothes have been stolen. Fires have been burnt in homes, leaving many on the streets. Food has been plundered. Hundreds have left Babylon; thousands remain, nowhere else to go. 

There are some things that are the same in every place on Earth, though. Eve had held Cain on her hip in the same way, quietly talking to him, a finger tracing the small nose of her firstborn son. Aziraphale has seen this a thousand times, and he suspects he will a thousand times more.

“Get some food,” she continues, talking to her son, and doesn’t even notice as Aziraphale stands up, transfixed, and moves towards her. “Find you a good home, hmm, _mene sūnús_ -”

“Excuse me,” he says, and her head flies up towards him. _My son_ , she’d said, and he’d understood the words and the sentence structure - the _structure_ , it was different in this language, and he hadn’t understood. The words had all flown together like one big string of incomprehensible sounds, but now - he gets it. Impossibly, he gets it. The different little bits of sounds, with a different emphasis and a different syntax.

“You understand me,” she says, almost in tears as she clutches at her son. “I understand _you_ , thank Marduk, I understand -”

“What’s your name?” Aziraphale asks hurriedly, and crouches in front of her to look at the child better. He can’t be over a year old - somewhere in between Anu and Ulsharra, and that puts him solidly under two and a half years and above a month. 

“Lahamu,” she says, and presses her child to her chest. “This is Mesannipadda, my son.”

“Hello, it’s very nice to meet you,” Aziraphale says pleasantly. The sounds roll off his tongue as if they belong there. An odd sensation, to be sure. “Do you have any family here, besides your son? Anywhere you’re safe?”

Lahamu’s eyes water and she bites her lip as she shakes her head. “My husband,” she says quietly, and fights a sob. She presses her hand against forehead, the palm sliding over her eyes. The other arm still holds tightly onto Mesannipadda. 

“Where is he?” Aziraphale asks.

“ _Mrtos._ ” Dead.

There’s bodies, too. Men and women and even children, dead in homes and dead in streets. The panic in the first few hours had led to fights and brawls, and many innocent people had gotten caught up, too. If not that, dehydration and hunger had taken some in the days after, with the economic system having tumbled down alongside Babylon’s people.

Aziraphale has given as little thought to the dead as he can. He’s never gotten quite used to it, is what it is, and anyway, he can do little to help those who are gone. The most he has been able to do is make sure the bodies are found by those who need the closure and to make sure they don’t cover Babylon.

Once big, once prospering, fallen with a single thunderstrike from Heaven. Aziraphale turns his attention back to Lahamu.

“I’m sorry for your loss, dear,” he says. “But this is no place for you.”

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” Lahamu whispers. 

“Have faith,” Aziraphale tells her, and rises to his feet, and brings Lahamu with him.

~*~*~*~

The other half of Aziraphale’s days are spent with Binah and her family. The day he meets Lamahu is the same day he finally masters Yahir’s language, which is also Crowley’s. Crowley was right, in a way; it does feel like it’s full of vowels, but now that it makes sense, Aziraphale isn’t much bothered by the logistics.

He’s more absorbed by the question about how they’re going to teach languages to everyone. Crowley’s attempts at teaching Yahir the language that he and Radjni speak has, thus far, not worked fantastically.

“ _Mesai_ ,” Crowley says pointedly, tapping on the table as he stares down Yahir, and the children, Babum, Tuge and Anu. Zirat and Kurum are sitting down on the chair, also clearly involved but not the point of Crowley’s teaching methods, as Zirat coos over little Ulsharra at the same time.

“I’m not sure that it works like that,” Aziraphale says worriedly.

“ _Madhulai,_ ” Crowley says, ignoring Aziraphale as he picks up the apricot. He gives it to the bewildered man, repeating the word very slowly.

“ _Madhulai?_ ” Yahir asks, sounding very uncertain, and then points to a melon. “ _Madhulai?_ ”

“No, no, it’s not fruit in general,” Aziraphale explains, although Yahir is the only one with whom he shares a language so far, so the children and the new parents won’t understand a word of it. “It’s an apricot specifically. That’s a _mulambazham_ , Yahir, melon. All of the fruit together -” at this point he gestures at the whole table full of fruit, “is _pazham_.”

Babum, the oldest of the children, frowns and leans backwards. He doesn’t seem very interested in the language lessons in general, and neither do Tuge and Anu, who tend to do very well at sitting still for longer periods. Apsu is still too young for language lessons in general, both he and Crowley thought.

Crowley glances at him, annoyed, and this time taps Aziraphale’s arm. “ _Loosu_ ,” he says.

Aziraphale glares at him, tutting his lips. “That’s rude.”

“ _Loosu,_ ” Anu repeats.

“No,” Aziraphale says sternly. Crowley grins, raising his eyebrows at him, and Aziraphale huffs at him. “Really, Crowley, you shouldn’t go around teaching them that kind of language. The only nice thing to come out of this whole debacle is that at least maybe the swearing will go a bit out of vogue. So many - bad words we could’ve gotten rid of!”

Crowley tilts his head. “Interesting thought,” he says. “But does language shape thought, or does thought shape language, angel?”

Aziraphale blinks. “Erm,” he says. “I never thought about it.”

“Linguistic determinism,” Crowley says. “Not a fan of it, myself. Guess we’ll find out what the humans think whenever they get it going, really. Anyway, does it mean that they’re saying bad words because they have ‘em, or are they just using bad words ‘cus they want to use bad words?”

“Well, if they didn’t know any -” Aziraphale starts.

“They’d just make it up. S’ what they do, isn’t it? They make up words for towers and temples and all kinds of new things. No, angel, your language policy isn’t going to work out. Not at all.”

And with that, Aziraphale, although with some grumbling, concedes the point and lets Crowley continue on with his language lessons.

It takes months for most of the family to even follow basic sentences; Yahir is slow on the uptake, and the children are a bit better at it, and so is Kurum, although Zirat struggles like her father. Aziraphale and Crowley focus on the ones willing to learn, although Binah is mostly focused on keeping the family alive and fed. She is slowly rebuilding a sort of economy in Babylon, although a very makeshift one, and Radjni helps her.

It’s an equilibrium. It’s one that is fragile and will break upon the slightest pressure. Babylon will not work on their Tower; they might never again. They will live, though, and even with Yahir’s slow grasp of morphosyntax and the intricacies of geminates, he is improving.

Aziraphale sees light on the horizon, bleak as it may be. It becomes a lot brighter, however, when Apsu becomes involved.

~*~*~*~

The language divide has been going on for nearly four months. Aziraphale is exhausted. There are countless languages in his head, all very different and some more similar, and sometimes it’s hard to keep track of them all. He will, however, since he must.

Organisation-wise, Binah has been a huge help. She, along with her daughters and husband, have helped with the rise of a sanctuary.

This is how it works: 

Families and friends find each other in the sanctuary, which is mostly based in a few buildings near the marketplace. It is in the centre of Babylon, for convenience. Most families near there have fled their homes anyway; Aziraphale isn’t sure where they have gone or what has happened to them, but they have lost some of the Babylonian people. Still, most of them have stayed, tied in desperation to family they can no longer speak with.

Crowley and Aziraphale did a lot of the hard work, in the first two months. However, the humans have now worked out a more efficient system themselves. In the early days, Aziraphale would find people whose languages he knew and create groups. One language group would be able to talk to each other, but that is, of course, not the solution. 

Crowley would figure out more languages and try to help people understand. While he is in charge of the essence of the lessons, Aziraphale would take care more of the didactics. When families are reunited, and the individual members leave their language groups, a single language would be settled on to teach all of them. They tried, at the beginning, to have the groups as large as possible, which doesn’t always work.

It had been a lot of work for two beings, even if they were supernatural entities who don’t need to sleep. Although Aziraphale is somewhat certain that Binah’s family, at the very least, is somewhat aware that neither he nor Crowley are fully human, he’d rather keep up appearances. Radjni knows, of course, but she hasn’t given up their secret, she’d told Aziraphale, and he’s inclined to believe her.

Now, things are flowing more easily. Communication is still difficult. Binah’s family is starting to speak the language that Aziraphale ended up with originally, but it’s slow-going and hackling. Some of them are quicker on the uptake than others; Aziraphale isn’t sure why that is. It could be individual differences, but maybe external factors count, too, or the original language they know. He’s noticed that some of the languages that seem further away have very different sounds, giving more trouble to the ones that are learning. 

This is where they are now; the sun is out, so the old marketplace, having been converted into something more equipped for teaching large groups of people new languages, is full. The whole economy has changed around their system. It warms Aziraphale’s heart a little, to see how resilient the humans are.

Lahamu is with him, as are Radjni and Isthana. The three of them, together with Isthana’s sister Zirat, have become something of a unit working in motion. Aziraphale is not sure why all of them have become so thick as thieves, but they have, and it is a splendid thing, really. Lahamu and Isthana have brought the children; only Isthana’s oldest, Babum, is off somewhere. With Crowley, probably - the boy had latched onto the demon with an uncanny willingness. Isthana is taking care of Apsu, though, Zirat’s son.

This means that Aziraphale is surrounded by his friends and their children. Isthana and Radjni already spoke the same language, originally, and Zirat is learning. Lahamu barely speaks it and prefers to return to her own original language. Despite it being so different, she can make herself clear easily enough, especially if others are there to translate. As luck would have it, Lahamu’s language is shared by Isthana’s youngest, Anu. Perhaps that contributed to the friendship as well.

“They are learning well,” Radjni comments, having one hand on top of Anu’s head, the other on her brother Tuge’s. She likes children, despite not having any of her own. Aziraphale has never asked her why. 

They are looking over a group that is being taught their language. There are now twenty or so in each block, and each person teaching doesn’t know the languages of the persons he is teaching. It has made things more difficult, but Crowley says that the immersive education will be more useful, in the end. From teaching Yahir, he’d noticed that explaining might be easier if you already share a language, but this way forces them to all use and grasp the language they are trying to learn.

It’s not as if they have much choice. The sanctuary works, but it’s still a fledgling enterprise with a lot of desperate people. 

“They are,” Aziraphale just says.

“It’s not going very fast, though,” Isthana says, peering in concern. “They know some words, but they form the sentences all wrong. Some of their sounds are still off, for some of them more so than others.”

“Cross-linguistic influence,” Aziraphale offers. “Interference of one language with the other.”

Crowley had delighted in coming up with terminology for all kinds of concepts. Aziraphale is just trying to keep track of them all and wishes he could store information somewhere. A better writing system, that is what these people need, he is convinced; there is a rudimentary one now, but it’s not used for much. 

Maybe that’ll change, one day. Aziraphale thinks he might like reading what these humans have to offer. 

“Makes sense,” Isthana nods. “When I was trying to learn Father’s language, it just - it’s so difficult. Pazuzu told me I kept confusing the word order. It’s hard to imagine language being any other way than the one you’re used to. I’ve never had to think about the structure so hard.”

“But you’re improving,” Radjni says. “That’s good.”

Another language - Lahamu’s voice, this time, cutting through the conversation. “Who is that stranger?”

Aziraphale looks, but he can’t see what person Lahamu means. She holds Mesannipadda to her chest, and it makes it difficult for her to signal. His eyes fleet over the humans in the marketplace, though; none of them seem to be the particular individual Lahamu might mean. 

“That man,” Apsu says, and tugs on Aziraphale’s clothes. “There, there.”

Aziraphale, in all fairness, does spend about two seconds peeking out towards where Apsu is pointing, before he realises that Apsu was speaking Lahamu’s language instead of the one he had been using thus far. 

He sinks to his knees, his hands on Apsu’s shoulders. “What did you say?”

“The white man,” Apsu says stubbornly. “White, like ‘Zira, and like ‘Zuzu.”

“When,” Aziraphale says, and turns towards Isthana, “was anyone going to tell me that Apsu speaks two languages?”

“He barely even speaks our language,” Isthana protests. “He only started picking that up recently, and he still makes a lot of mistakes. What language do you mean?”

Aziraphale’s mind races. Apsu isn’t fully proficient at any language, that’s true - but his pronunciation is far more accurate, and his sentences are simple but he speaks them fluently and without much self-doubt. 

“Children’s brains work differently,” he says slowly. “Maybe they are better at this - maybe this is more natural to them, picking up a new language. He’s clearly picking up two languages at the same time! He’s been around Lahamu so often, speaking to her child, and to Anu, and me and Crowley - he must’ve been slowly learning.”

“He’s been talking to me,” Anu says slowly. “Right, Apsu? I’ve been telling him the stories you told me. We didn’t have a lot to do, so I thought - is that good? Won’t he get confused, with two languages in his head? _I’m_ very confused.”

“I don’t think so,” Aziraphale says excitedly, and shifts to look at Apsu. The child isn’t much impressed. Aziraphale wiggles on his knees, feeling the muscles protest, but he doesn’t care much for his corporation’s discomfort. “Apsu, do you speak with Anu often? Hm? And with the rest of your family?”

“It’s different,” Apsu just says. “Not difficult. Can we go home?”

“Soon,” Isthana says, and looks towards Aziraphale. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Aziraphale says, “that we need to look at some more children.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lahamu speaks mostly whatever I could drudge up from Proto-Indo-European, but historical linguistics isn’t my specialisation, and I’ve only ever had courses as far back as Old English anyway, so if there happens to be someone who knows a ton about PIE - lol, actually, if there is someone, we should chat and you can tell me everything I did wrong. I’d love to hear it. The original language that Aziraphale & Radjni (and later, Crowley) speak is Tamil (not, like, a super-duper old version of it, because c’mon, give me a break, was PIE not enough research for you?)


	3. Chapter 3

“You know what you never told me?” Aziraphale says late one night, when it’s just Crowley and him, everyone else asleep in their beds. They sit out front, both holding a cup of wine that glimmers darkly in the moonlight. If he twirls the liquid enough, it reminds him of how the sea raged while he sat on Noah’s Ark. 

Perhaps She felt that way. Maybe Earth was Her cup, and the Flood was Her wine. Aziraphale feels bad, and downs his cup in one go. When he finishes, Crowley is staring at him with golden eyes, calculating.

“Well?” Crowley says, and takes a disdainful sip of his own cup. Maybe he doesn’t like it - the quality isn’t what it used to be. “What did I never tell you?”

“What you were doing, hanging around the Tower of Babel. Meskalamdug’s brother - what’s his name, Appanili, and the priest, Ahu-Shina, they both seemed to know you rather well. I never figured out why.”

“I was going to tell you,” Crowley says flatly. “You didn’t want to hear.”

Aziraphale barely remembers that first meeting in Babylon. He’s been seeing more of Crowley, now that they are both trying to help the inhabitants. It still feels like sacrilege, sitting and talking with Crowley, not even wanting to smite him. He’s sure Gabriel would not be happy to hear of their acquaintance, really, but oh, She hasn’t come to tell him off yet, has She? And Crowley’s not so bad, for a demon. As long as it doesn’t turn into a habit, Aziraphale is sure he can get away with it for once.

“We’re not supposed to keep each other up to date on our missions, Crowley,” Aziraphale mutters. “You’re well aware of it. So. Will you tell me now?”

“I helped design part of the Tower,” Crowley says, and then blinks, as if he’s given up the words before he even meant to. Aziraphale smiles at Crowley’s own surprise. No, Crowley surely isn’t so bad, for a demon. 

“So you hung around the makers of it?” he presses gently. “What did you design?”

“The stairs,” says Crowley, who doesn’t look at him anymore but rather at the starlit sky. “Thought I’d give them a little demonic twist. Have you walked many stairs, angel? There’s this height that’s perfect for walking stairs, but if they’re a little taller or lower - people get so annoyed. I thought it’d be a nice addition. S’ not exactly one of my masterplans, you know, but it’s demonic enough, that. Never had any complaints from Downstairs, sure enough.”

“And you would’ve had them walking towards the clouds while cursing at the stairs,” Aziraphale says in amusement.

“S’ not why the Tower was struck, though,” Crowley says, almost in haste. Aziraphale is the one who is surprised, this time; he hadn’t even considered the possibility. “You know that, right? I just wanted to do something. Anything. Something that’d be remembered. I thought, if not the Tower, then - I didn’t know. I didn’t know, okay, and it wasn’t my idea! This isn’t demonic intervention, is it? This is _your_ lot. I just wanted to be part of something that’d _last_.”

Aziraphale bites his lip and twists a hand in his own robe. “Aren’t you the reason they were able to build it, anyway?” he asks quietly. “Imagination, free will, ambition.”

“Yeah,” Crowley murmurs, and leans against a wall, looking far too tired as he runs a hand down his face. “Yeah. And She struck them down for it once again, didn’t She?”

“She did, rather,” Aziraphale says. “I knew they were heathens, of course, I knew that the entire Tower was a monument to their false gods - but I didn’t think She’d be this angry. They were working together so beautifully, so ambitiously -”

“Careful there, angel,” Crowley mutters, and he taps Aziraphale’s knuckles gently with one of his own fingers, crooked and long. “You don’t want Her to think you don’t agree with Her plan, do you?”

Breathing isn’t technically necessary, but it’s only the second time Crowley has ever touched him, really, which makes him hold in the air anyway. It is - odd, isn’t it, odd? That they’ve known each other for a thousand years, and they’d only touched two times in that long period? 

Aziraphale exhales and shakes his head. “No, no, of course I agree. I’m merely - I thought they’d be capable of saving. I didn’t know the… situation was this - dire. They were all so very _kind_ to me, and I can’t imagine. Well. That’s not my job, is it, imagining? Best to leave Her to Her plans. Ineffability, it’s best to not even doubt. You’re quite right, of course.”

“Quite right,” Crowley repeats, and a comfortable silence falls for a few moments. Aziraphale just looks up at the stars. A few deviant clouds lazily hang in the sky, a lighter blue than the rest of the sky, reflecting back the light. 

“I do know it wasn’t you, you know, the reason Babylon was struck,” Aziraphale says quietly. “I never thought it was.”

Aziraphale realises he expected Crowley to relax at that only when he doesn’t. Crowley is tense, somehow, and shifts away. He meets Aziraphale’s gaze. The moonlight has painted his red hair darker, almost black, although his skin is pale as ever. Tall and gangly Crowley, too many limbs to coordinate correctly, the odd and awkward beauty that he wields, seemingly unaware of it.

“I’ve got to leave Babylon, soon,” Crowley says, and leans back, consequently further away from Aziraphale. He cranes his neck to look back to the sky. “Hastur’s been lurking around. Never liked Hastur. Always lurking. _Lurking_ , that’s what he does.”

“Well, that does sound, erm. Rather demon-ish.”

Crowley glances at him, lip slightly quirked. “That’s the thing, innit? As demons, you don’t want to _look_ demon-ish. s’ Not elegant, I’m telling you, what’s the temptation in that? Anyway, he’s here, and that’s never good. Means Downstairs is paying attention to what I’m doing.”

“So they’ll figure out you’ve been helping me,” Aziraphale realises. “That - that can’t be good, can it? If they’ll figure it out?”

“I dunno. What’d happen to you if you were found - erm, what to call it. Fraternising?”

“Fraternising?” Aziraphale asks, and can’t help but smile at the word. “That’s a rather big word for what we’re doing, don’t you think? It’s not as if we see each other _consistently_ , surely. We’re not friends - we’re merely - well.”

_Co-conspirators_ is the word that comes to mind, but that makes him rather uncomfortable. He’s not supposed to conspire with anyone that’s not in Heaven, and anyway, he’s not supposed to conspire in the first place, since that sounds rather like rebelling. 

“Yeah,” Crowley mutters. “Not friends. Sure, you’re right. What would happen, hypothetically, if Heaven did find out that I’ve been - helping you?”

“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale says, and starts to wonder. “I’m helping these poor people. That’s all this is about, in the end. Certainly, no one could argue with that. But - erm. I’m actually not really sure. Nothing too bad, of course - since, you know. We’re the good guys. Divine mercy, and all that.”

Crowley is nodding along, and there’s something like relief passing over his face. Aziraphale has no time to wonder at it when the demon gets to his feet. “Must be true,” Crowley agrees easily. “Hell probably doesn’t have desk duty for me if I get caught with an angel, is all. Desk duty is just to annoy the juniors, mostly. I’m not looking forward to - whatever they’d do, so I’m just - going to leave, first thing tomorrow. Just wanted to let you know.”

He shouldn’t be so disappointed. Crowley’s been hanging around for weeks, and he’s not half-bad as company. He knows things the humans don’t, can relate to things that others can’t, and his razor sharp commentary on the acquisition of language is more helpful than anything else. They haven’t been in each other’s company this much since Cain and Abel, that’s all, and Aziraphale didn’t know he’d missed that bit of insincere rivalry, the barking without a bite. 

“Oh, can’t you stay a few more days?” he blurts out, getting to his own feet. “Babum will miss you terribly, you know, the boy barely stops talking about you. Sabit and Imma do love to braid your hair, and you’re so good at explaining the words to them. Just a few more days. Certainly you can evade Hastur until then?”

Crowley looks struck at that.

“I’m not -” he splutters, “they’re not - you don’t need me around, Aziraphale. You can do this on your own, you know? You’re capable of a lot of things.”

Heaven has called him capable before. It had never felt as sincere as falling from Crowley’s lips, almost as if the words weren’t meant to come out. Aziraphale beams brightly.

“Won’t you?” he asks again, putting his hands together. 

Crowley sighs and puts his hands across his face, muttering something into them. Aziraphale can’t hear, but somehow, he feels he’s found a way of getting the demon to agree with him. Who’d known that a demon could be so affected by the kindness of humans?

“Fine,” Crowley says through his fingers, and then lets his hands fall. “Fine. But only for a few days, and then you’re on your own. Got it, angel? No more fraternising after that.”

“Oh, I doubt we’ll run into each other much,” Aziraphale says, and doesn’t comment on the word _fraternising_ again.

Crowley glares, and shakes the offered hand.

~*~*~*~

The children, as it turns out, are very good at language learning. Most of it doesn’t even happen in the classroom but rather as they are surrounded by their parents and siblings.

It gives Aziraphale a little more hope, to see the children running around, babbling to their parents. Maybe the adults will struggle with a new language for the rest of their lives; maybe they’ll adapt in two years, or twenty. Who knows? But the children - they’ll learn. The tragedy of Babel won’t live forever. It might not even last more than a generation.

Babylon is changing. Once a vibrant and lively town, then struck down, now growing beyond its grief. One language in particular has found root in the centre and the economy. People need money to keep going. They won’t get back to their earlier fortune quite as easily; Aziraphale wonders if they ever will. 

The Tower of Babel, still sitting incomplete in the city, might never be finished. Not with the number of people that have left, people that were integral to its building, to the calculations and upkeep. Apparently, Meskalamdug and his brothers are no longer in Babylon. Aziraphale feels a pang of loss at the thought - it makes the loss of the Tower so real. Who else is going to complete another man’s life’s work?

Lahamu sits next to Isthana and Zirat, her son on her lap, quietly talking. Apsu, Babum, Tuge and Anu are all surrounding Isthana, while Zirat holds the small Ulsharra. Ulsharra is too small yet to speak any language; Aziraphale wonders what language she will pick up first. Her mother’s, probably, as it’s the one she hears the most. She’ll be among the first of a new generation of children - children who speak several languages, in all probability, children who will grow up not understanding every word they come across.

There’s something beautiful in it, Aziraphale decides right there and then. Up until now, the division of languages has been a tragedy, something to keep families apart. Now he can see that, maybe, in the future, it’ll be something to keep families together. A shared language, a secret no one else will know. 

“I’m sorry I barely understand,” he whispers, looking up and clasping his hands together. “I know You are doing the right thing, my Lord. I’m sorry I don’t always see it.”

Crowley pushes past him, looking amused. “What’re you doing there, angel?”

“Oh, nothing,” Aziraphale says hurriedly, and hides his hands behind his back as he smiles at the demon. “Just thinking about the future of Babylon.”

Crowley snorts. “Nothing ‘just’ about that, I’d say. It’s changing. Most of the language groups have started their own communities, and that’s not even saying anything of that one language group that’s now dominating the economy.”

“Akkadian,” Aziraphale says, nodding. “It’s what they’re calling the language. Yes, they’ve grown rather ambitious again, haven’t they?”

At that, Crowley looks away. None of the members of Binah and Yahir’s family speak Akkadian; never have, really. They’ve all grown to use the yet-unnamed language that Aziraphale first spoke, and Radjni and Isthana. It’s still all rather hackling and going badly, but there is communication, each day more fluently. 

“It’s not going to be enough,” Crowley says eventually. “You know it’s not going to go back to what it was, right? Aziraphale?”

“Of course I know,” Aziraphale says quietly. “Too few people are left, and they’re not focused on the Tower. Most of the people involved are gone, and the ones that are still here have lost their care for it. But they’re rebuilding, _again_ , and that’s good. That’s all we could have hoped for.”

“Right,” Crowley says. “So, that begs the question. You know I’m leaving soon, but what about you? Are you going to be hanging around here? Are you following Binah’s family out of here?”

“Out of here?” Aziraphale repeats. “Where are they going?”

A hint of pink reaches the demon’s pale cheeks, and he blinks in surprise. “You didn’t know? Oh, for Someone’s sake - never mind, angel, I shouldn’t have said.”

When Aziraphale turns around, it’s to see Isthana staring at him. Crowley and he have long ceased to try and be careful in their conversations - most of it is beyond the understanding of the humans, either in language or content. She’d caught this snippet, though, and rises even as Crowley moves to the side.

“Sorry,” she says, and grimaces. “We talked about it with my father and mother. Babylon is not for us, anymore. There’s barely any work, and we have no friends left who speak our language. We want to go eastward - we’ve heard that there are new civilizations coming up. My father knows how to build, and he thinks that our family could be of use there.”

All his life, Aziraphale knows, Yahir has worked for Meskalamdug. It’s only one more tie that Babylon has destroyed, one more unspoken goodbye to an old life. If Yahir wants to go east and leave Babylon, the Tower unfinished and promises unfulfilled, it’s because he knows that clinging to the past won’t do him any good.

Aziraphale sometimes wishes he knew the same things that these humans so easily grasp.

“Ah,” he mutters. “Yes. Yes, of course, my dear, I wouldn’t have objected to that. You should do what is best for your family.”

“Radjni will come with us,” Isthana continues. “She’s become so close to us, and she’ll be able to build herself up again. Her brother - well. She said she would come with us.”

“And Lamahu?” Aziraphale asks, glancing at the woman, and he switches languages. “Lamahu, were you planning to leave as well?”

Lamahu looks at her son. “My language group is discussing it,” she says. “To the north, they say. There’s a place where no men have gone yet, with plenty of fruits and vegetables. A new world.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised. One last division for the language break; Babylon torn apart, at the very end. He has done something good here, of course. He’s brought families and friends together, and he’s given a community to people who needed one. Yet, Aziraphale can’t help but feel slightly lost. He likes Babylon. He’d loved it, and now everything about it is going to change.

“Don’t be upset,” Crowley says, and he’s leaning casually against the wall. It belies how serious he looks, though, the shimmer of gold in his eyes as he stares at Aziraphale. “Oh, you know, angel, it’s really best not to get attached. There’s going to be a thousand new Babylons, a thousand families like these. Think of the new things they’re going to do, the new things they’ll find. Humanity, they’re going on a right adventure.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says. “Of course. I’m not - not upset, and I’m frankly - it’s upsetting that you think I would be!”

“S’ my job, upsetting you,” Crowley mutters, although he doesn’t seem to take it to heart. Aziraphale exhales loudly, and turns back to Isthana. 

“Of course I won’t be upset,” he says. “I just - well, you could’ve _told_ me.”

For the first time, Zirat speaks up, her command of the language still wavering, although she’s studying tenaciously. “You could come,” she says, haltingly but clear. “You’ve been a friend. You could come.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “No, no. I couldn’t possibly.”

“Why?” Babum now asks, and he’s looking between Aziraphale and Crowley. “Why leave? Either of you? You’re friends, and you’re our friends, and you don’t have anyone else here. Why can’t you?”

“Listen up, little demon,” Crowley says, and pushes himself from the wall. “We’re not coming, and that’s it. We’ve got our own things to come back to, and our own lives to lead. We can’t be following around you all over Earth, as fun as it’d be. I’m going to leave soon, and so will Aziraphale.”

“And we’re not friends,” Aziraphale adds. Crowley sends him a withering look, but Aziraphale shrugs at it. It needs to be said, doesn’t it? Crowley’s a demon, after all.

“But Pazuzu -” Babum starts.

“No. That’s final.” Crowley turns back, placing a hand on the door handle, looking over his shoulder towards Aziraphale. “It’s not our jobs to stay with them, angel. It’s best to let them go now. For what it’s worth - I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale watches Crowley retreat, and is left with a quiet and solemn family. He smiles, but is sure it won’t be as convincing. Based on the way that Anu comes to give him a hug, he definitely failed.

He’s not supposed to live among them. He forgot that for a bit, maybe, all caught up in the way their love feels. It’s directed at him now, and Aziraphale closes his eyes as he wraps his arms around the girl.

He was so glad to have folded his wings among the humans. Maybe he should’ve been a little warier about the consequences it would have, blending in. Crowley has the right of it, after all; it’s not his job to stay. In fact, it’s his job not to.

Never again, Aziraphale tells himself firmly. There might be a thousand more Babylons, but there won’t be another family like this one again. He won’t let there be one.

~*~*~*~

He smells him before he sees him.

It’s the lingering fire and brimstone, all sizzling ash and the sulphur hint of unholiness. It’s what Crowley first smelled like, he thinks, but Crowley has long since gained a more earthy odour to himself. Crowley smells like brimstone, but he also smells like plants growing in the dirt and sunlight hitting the bricks.

This smell is unfamiliar. This smell is purely demonic.

Aziraphale looks around when he first notices it; for a moment, he hopes that Crowley just popped back to Hell for a minute there and came back smelling like it. Soon enough, he knows that it wasn’t.

“Another white man,” Radjni notices, walking next to him. “Is he - like you?”

Aziraphale sees him, then. This demon is unclean, his eyes pitch-black even from far away, his clothes ragged and torn. He’s everything that Crowley isn’t. In an uprising instinct, Aziraphale stops in the middle of the street, halting Radjni, Binah and Isthana, walking beside him.

“No,” Aziraphale whispers, and takes a step back, raising his arms so he pushes the women back.

Crowley isn’t near, and there’s another demon here. Hastur, by all accounts, lurking. And then Hastur sees him - and screeches. 

Aziraphale isn’t sure what he would have done if the demon had not come right at him. If Hastur had just ran away, he might’ve let him go - no harm done, all in all, and it’s early. They’re not in the centre, so there’s barely anyone out here. He might’ve just let him run off.

But Hastur runs towards him, a Duke of Hell with mad eyes and fire in his palm, looking for all intents and purposes ready to kill Aziraphale. And there’s his three companions to think of, the women he’s grown to know and is so, so very fond of.

Aziraphale spreads his wings and pushes back the humans.

“Angel!” the demon shouts, and Aziraphale doesn’t know if the fire in his hands is infernal or comes from Earth. He doesn’t want to risk it - discorporation is a mess all by itself, but infernal fire will destroy him completely.

He extends himself in the air, removing himself further from the Duke. He no longer has a sword, but he’s - well. He is a tad useless at fighting, really, he’s never really had the stomach for it, and that flaming sword always rather seemed more decorative than anything. He was glad to be rid of it, really.

But he’s an angel, and a principality, no less, which means his entire existence is meant to protect humans. He snaps his fingers, and the holy light dawns on Hastur’s face. It’s not as impressive as it would be during night time, but it surprises the demon for a full second, which is all Aziraphale needs to get what he needs.

He snaps his fingers, and one of the statues of Marduk, barely looked after in the last few months, comes tumbling down right on top of the unsuspecting demon. It’s a lucky hit more than anything; it bashes in his head, and Hastur falls down, groans a little, and stops moving.

Aziraphale moves gracefully to his feet, his wings fluttering in anxiety as he crouches next to the demon. The smell of sulphur diminishes, clinging to the vessel that is left behind, now without the demon in it.

“Oh dear,” he says out loud. “Did I just smite him?”

“Is he - dead?”

Radjni crouches next to him, wide-eyed as she looks at what used to be a demon.

“Erm, no,” Aziraphale says awkwardly. “Not _dead_ -dead, certainly - only, erm. Inconveniently discorporated, might be the better term. Dear me, no, I’ve never actually - _killed_ anyone - well. It doesn’t count if it’s a demon, do you think?”

“A demon?”

This time it’s Isthana who speaks up. Aziraphale looks over to her. She is standing where he pushed them, her eyes brimming and the kohl on her lids smudged with tears. Binah just has a hand over her mouth, shaking her head minutely. He realizes he still has his wings out, and they stare at the white feathers on his back.

“Rather,” he says, and stands up, holding out his hands. “Erm, how does one go over this again? Ah, yes. Don’t be afraid! I’m - I’m an _angel_ , you see, I’m - I’m _good_.”

“An angel?” Isthana repeats, and she slips her hand into her mother’s. “Is that - like a god? Marduk?”

“No, no, nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale says. “Marduk isn’t real, you see, not in the way - erm. I’m an angel of the Lord in Heaven. The real God, the only God. Please, don’t be afraid. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

And this is why it’s an issue, he reflects. If he’d had this reaction from the beginning on, they wouldn’t have cared to be so close to him. They would not have treated him as a friend. They would have treated him as an angel, which he _is_ , so it shouldn’t feel so off-putting.

Binah removes the hand from her mouth, but it still trembles as she meets his eyes. “I always thought you were different,” she says, the words still slow to come, partly due to shock and partly due to her language difficulties. “But this - you’re. You are one of the gods.”

“Oh no, definitely no god,” Aziraphale hurries to say. “Please, if anything, believe -”

A flash of lightning interrupts him. Aziraphale turns on his heels, almost convinced that Hastur came back to destroy him after a hasty and rather messy discorporation. Seeing Gabriel instead isn’t as much of a relief as he’d thought it would be, though.

Gabriel turns, looking at the demon’s corporation and then glances back at Aziraphale. His expression is unreadable, at first, but then he grins, and slowly starts clapping his hands.

“An old-fashioned smiting!” Gabriel says, walking over. He already has his wings out, of course, and he’s wearing more traditional robes. He’s a pure blinding white, his corporation sleek and handsome. He’s speaking the human language Aziraphale first got, and it doesn’t even take him any time at all to have switched to it. “Oh, Aziraphale, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Aziraphale glances over at his human companions. Binah and Isthana are holding onto each other tightly, pressing themselves away as much as they can. Binah’s hands are starkly white from how tightly she’s holding onto her daughter’s robes, her lips merely a pressed line. Radjni is not as upset, but she’s very quiet, her eyes large.

“Hello, Gabriel,” he says carefully. “Erm. What are you doing here?”

“You just discorporated a demon!” Gabriel says in delight. “Got the news from Amaniel. She’s been keeping an eye on angelic and demonic interferences in Babylon, you see. That’s not important, though! What’s important is that you discorporated a demon! Takes you over a thousand years, but you’ve finally done it! See, Aziraphale, some people thought you’d never get to it. I knew, of course, that you could. I’ve always believed in you.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Thank you?”

Gabriel’s teeth are so white that it almost hurts his eyes. “So, how’d you do it?” Gabriel asks, leaning in conspiratorially. “That flaming sword you were issued? Blast from the sky? Oh, don’t tell me - bow and arrow!”

“Bow and arrow?” Aziraphale repeats in disbelief. “Erm, no. I dropped a statue on him.”

Gabriel whirls around, looking at the demon. He makes a noise. “Statue. A statue of a fake god! Oh, that’s very nicely done. Well. I just wanted to come down and congratulate you on your first smiting. We know there’s another demon here, so you might want to watch out for that. Which one’s this, you think? The demon Crowley?”

“No,” Aziraphale says without thinking, and when Gabriel raises his eyebrows, he continues hurriedly. “It’s - erm, Crowley was with me in the Garden of Eden, remember, I know what - erm, that _snake_ looks like. He’s been - avoiding me, the foul fiend, he’s a slippery sort - erm. All he does is lurk. Lurking, all day long. Not managed to - erm, catch him yet, I’m afraid.”

Gabriel hums. “Good work nonetheless,” he says brightly, and clasps Aziraphale on his back. “Nice to hear you’re finally taking down the demons some pegs. Oh, and Aziraphale, please, I know you’re taking pity on the humans here, but really, you can’t stay here forever. We’ve got an assignment for you in Sanxingdui.”

“China,” Aziraphale murmurs. “You - you want me to leave Babylon? Now?”

“What’s so special about it, anyway?” Gabriel asks, looking around disinterested. “It’s great fall has already come, the Tower has been thwarted. All that’s left is for the people to spread themselves around the Earth. Nothing really interesting going on here.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says. “I just - wanted to help, you see.”

“Of course you did,” Gabriel says. “Well! This has taken enough of my time. I want you to be in Sanxingdui in a fortnight, and no more surprise visits to my office about the people of Babylon. Good job on smiting the demon, and if you see the demon Crowley, feel free to smite him, too. With holy water, if you can, but a nice discorporation also wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Ah, yes. I’ll - I’ll smite him accordingly, when - erm, if! If I ever see him.”

Another bolt of lightning, and Gabriel is gone again. Aziraphale sags against the walls of an abandoned house, feeling exhausted. Finally, he folds up his wings again, feeling the metaphysical sensation of feathers brushing against his own chin before they disappear. 

“Are you alright?” Radjni asks, hurrying towards him. One of her hands, when she helps him regain his balance, is on his back, where his wings just disappeared. Aziraphale smiles tightly and gently takes her hands off him.

“I’m fine,” he says. “That was my boss. He’s - erm. I’ve got to leave.”

“We could hear everything he said, you know,” Radjni says wryly. “Erm. Not to - not to pry, but - Pazuzu. You call him Crowley, right? And your - boss, just now - he said -”

“A demon?” Isthana finishes. “You’ve led - a _demon_ \- into our family?”

“Crowley wouldn’t harm anyone,” Aziraphale protests. 

“But he’s a demon?” Radjni asks. “You’re friends with a demon? Your _enemy?_ ”

“We’re not friends!” Aziraphale says. “Look, _please_ , all of you. Let’s go back home, and we’ll forget about all of this. All of us are leaving soon. There’s no need to linger on any details, I’d say.”

“Pazuzu is home,” Binah says. “To say bye.”

Isthana’s eyes widen at that, and she starts running. Obviously, the news about Crowley hasn’t settled very well. Aziraphale exhales, and follows with hasty steps. Of course, it would all fall apart when Gabriel showed up.

~*~*~*~

Fortunately, the family’s home is only a few minutes away; the streets get busier the closer they get, or Aziraphale might have flown to catch up.

Radjni and Binah are behind him when Aziraphale opens the door to the home. Isthana is already there, and unfortunately, so is Crowley. The demon’s got a small bag on the table, filled with apples and a bottle of wine. Aziraphale is not sure where his next assignment is, but it’s apparently nowhere they can be expected to have good liquor. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, holding up his hands as he bursts inside. Yahir is on the side, holding Isthana’s arm. Babum and Sabit are pressed against the wall, as Imma stands near Crowley, uncertain to protect him from Isthana’s anger or to assist her sister.

“What in the blessed world?” Crowley spats at him. “What’d you _tell_ her?”

“You’re a demon!” Isthana cries out. “The angel told us, he said you’re a demon! You’ve been - corrupting! This is all your fault!”

She pushes her father aside, and Imma steps away immediately. Aziraphale moves quicker than he’s used to and grabs her arm, before she can do something she will regret. Slapping a demon won’t solve any of her problems, and besides, Crowley hasn’t deserved that kind of treatment.

“What did you do?” Crowley says furiously.

“I didn’t do anything,” Aziraphale tells him, still holding back Isthana. “We saw Hastur, and he attacked me. I discorporated him, but -”

“You discorporated Hastur?” Crowley says in disbelief, and then looks back towards Isthana, her hand still raised, still trying to get to him. Aziraphale can pinpoint the exact moment that Crowley draws back in on himself, the moment he decides that he’s outstayed his welcome. 

It’s the same look he’d had when Adam had attacked him, after Abel died. 

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale says. “This isn’t - she’s just _afraid_. She doesn’t understand, I didn’t have any time to explain -”

“Afraid of me,” Crowley mutters, and deflates. He easily snakes away from Isthana, who still struggles in Aziraphale’s grasp.

“You’re a demon!” Isthana yells, but some of the heat is out of her voice. Maybe she looks at Crowley and sees the same face that has been helping them for months; the person who’s befriended her son, whose hair has been braided by her and her sisters, the same person who has never complained about helping her family learn her language.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tries again, and isn’t even sure what he’s trying. “I didn’t tell them -”

“It’s fine, angel.” Crowley stretches out his hands, and his wings come unfurled. They’re still black and sleek, as dark as the night. Aziraphale is tempted to reach out and stop him, but Isthana is still struggling in his grip, and he can’t let her go to hold onto a demon.

“I’m sorry,” he just says.

Crowley’s lips twitch into an insincere grin. “It’s for the best,” he says. “I s’pose I can’t blame you for telling them the truth, can I now? Since you’re an angel.”

With that, he steps out of the door. Aziraphale can hear the rustling, and he lets go of Isthana as he rushes to the door, just in time to see Crowley fly away. The entire family hurries after him, staring at the sky. Anyone in the street that saw him take off stares, too, mumbling at the dark spot above them, growing ever fainter.

“Racing the clouds home,” Yahir mutters, next to him, his hand held above his eyes so he won’t be blinded by the sun. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale repeats. 

Binah steps next to him, laying a hand on his arm. “It’s no fault of yours,” she says. “He was a kind man. Perhaps some demons are better than vengeful gods.”

To respond to it would be heresy, so Aziraphale keeps his mouth shut, and lets the family go back inside. He stands on that doorstep for a few more minutes, until the spot in the sky has long disappeared.

~*~*~*~

The house is not empty, when Binah and Yahir’s family leaves. They haven’t done anything with the table or the chairs or the beds. They can only bring their food and water on the road, and some blankets to sleep with. They have many miles to travel before they rest, and they don’t want to carry too much.

Still. The house _feels_ empty. They are all outside, shielding their heads from the soft rain. Yahir is already ahead with Sabit, Imma and Babum to scout for a good route. Zirat and her husband Kurum are mostly focused on the babbles of Ulsharra, and the others are talking amongst themselves. They’ve already said their farewells to Aziraphale; all that is left for them is to go. 

One more abandoned house among the rest. Babylon may be rebuilding, but it’s lost much. Despite Aziraphale’s best efforts, families have still been torn apart. Radjni is one of many examples, although she smiles at Aziraphale when the moment of their farewell comes, standing outside on the emptied streets.

She takes Aziraphale’s hands one last time, gently rubbing them. “You’ll be fine without us, won’t you?”

“My dear girl,” Aziraphale says, and smiles at her. “I’ve been walking this Earth for over a thousand years, you know. I’ll manage just fine. I only hope your destination will be everything you hope it is. And I’m very sorry I broke my promise.”

“Your promise?”

“To find your brother. And your aunt. We never managed to find them, and I’m sorry you never found out what happened to them, or where they are.”

She pinches his hands, then lets them drop. “Me too,” she says honestly. “But if they’re still alive, they won’t be here. I can’t sit around waiting in Babylon forever.”

Her family may have died in the initial panic, or in the following weeks on the street. Maybe they took their chance and left; maybe others brought them with them. Some mysteries, Aziraphale knows, will never be solved. No matter how desperately you might want them to be.

“No, you can’t,” Aziraphale agrees.

“Thanks for helping me look, anyway,” she says, and tilts her head. “If you ever go to the east and find us, come look for the dried apricots. I’ll make sure to save some for you.”

Aziraphale takes a step back. A bit of sunshine peeks through the clouds and paints the family in brown and white, ready for a new world. 

“It will be appreciated,” he says, and knows he’ll never eat any of her apricots again. He’ll be in Sanxingdui for the foreseeable future - beyond her lifetime, in all probability. He will never know if she figured out where her family went, or how she’ll like her new life. 

She smiles, and turns away. “Bye, Aziraphale,” she says.

Binah comes up to him, hugging him tightly one last time. He pats her back, too, until she breaks away. Her lashes are wet, smudging the kohl underneath her eyes more than the subtle raindrops have so far. 

“We will miss you,” she murmurs in his ear. 

“And I you,” he says, feeling something tug at his own chest. “Thank you for being so kind, Binah. I won’t forget it.”

Her lips tilt into something more mischievous. “You shouldn’t,” she says, waggling her finger at him. Then she turns back to join her daughters and grandchildren, and the one son-in-law and a newfound family friend. It’s an odd group, but even as they turn and leave Babylon, Aziraphale feels the love emit from them.

He kept them together, in the end. That’s what he should focus on, instead of the useless ways his fingers twitch against his robes. The raindrops keep falling on his curls, running down his cheeks, but the sun stays out stubbornly.

A rainbow appears. Aziraphale stares at it, the same way he stared at it a hundred and seventy years ago. It’s a promise, She had said, that She would never drown them again. That they get a second chance, and it’ll be for the better.

He just prays She’ll keep it. 

Aziraphale breathes out and spreads his wings. The white feathers rustle, the drops falling off them and soaking him fully. Then he jumps in the air, and chasing the sun, flies away from Babylon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for this one. I hope everyone enjoyed; I certainly loved writing this one. I'm already working on the next instalment (which actually _will_ only be a oneshot and not turn into 25k without my consent), but I'm always open to hearing if there's any time periods you would like to see. I'd love to hear all of your thoughts!


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